Trading My Sorrows
by ShadowBallad
Summary: CHAP. 14a UP! Further edits of earlier chapters forthcoming I think! Snape happens upon a wizarding church when fleeing from Death Eaters. Basically, he becomes a Christian and returns to Hogwarts a changed man. Warning: religious themes.
1. Chapter 1: Prodigal

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad

Genre: Drama/Spiritual

Pairings: None so far

Timeline: AU fifth year, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin

Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )

Disclaimer: To put things simply, I do not own anything. Oh, the town is made up, so…don't go looking on a map for it. : )

* * *

Chapter One: Prodigal

_I've lost so many years  
There's nothing left but tears…_

_I had so much already,  
Yet I wanted so much more  
But in this world of things  
I was so naïve  
I walked into their arms  
And lost it all._

Eden's Bridge, _Prodigal_

Hell found him that night.

As soon as he Apparated to the clearing for tonight's meeting, masked men in black robes surrounded him. He nodded to them, attempting to take his place among them when one stepped from the circle, his wand pointed at the other's chest.

"Well, well, if it isn't the traitor!" The platinum-haired Death Eater spat on the ground, his ice blue eyes never leaving the onyx black orbs of the man before him. "You have some nerve coming here tonight, Snape!"

"I have no idea what you are blathering on about, Lucius," Severus Snape said coldly. He lifted his chin defiantly and fixed the other man with his fiercest glare.

The spy's emotions roiled inside of him. He had been discovered. Damn! Surreptitiously he glanced about, swiftly counting the Death Eaters surrounding him and attempting to put names to them. Avery, Nott, McNair, Crabbe and Goyle Sr. …and of course, Bellatrix Lestrange. His ruse had ended, it seemed.

He could not really say that he was surprised, only disappointed that he had failed Albus so soon after his return to the fold. Apparating to meetings during school days had become more and more frequent, which had disturbed him. Now, he knew why.

But Snape, long prideful of his reputation as the strictest teacher in Hogwarts history, was not about to go down without a fight.

"Oh, but I think you do," Lucius told him, raising his wand. The other Death Eaters followed suit. Snape shifted, drawing his wand from his left sleeve and holding it close to his body. He may have been the best duellist present, but facing seven angry Death Eaters all at once stretched his odds of winning quite thin.

"I believe that I am the best judge as to what I do and do not know," Snape said, holding Malfoy's gaze with stoic calm.

The Malfoy patriarch snarled at him. "_Crucio_!"

Snape nimbly dodged the curse, only to find everyone else launching their own attacks against him. "_Protego_!" he shouted, blocking a Stupefy from Crabbe and bending out of the way of McNair's Petrificus Totalus.

Adrenaline coursed through his body as he moved, skilfully avoiding hexes and blocking curses from all seven enemies. He never once stopped moving, as that would mean certain death.

"_Incarcerous_!" bellowed Nott. Snape just managed to twist away from the ropes shooting out of the Death Eater's wand. This left an opening in the circle, a chance for escape.

Snape took it.

"Get him, you fools!" he heard Malfoy screech as he ducked behind a grove of trees. Panting, he reached into his robe pockets and uncorked a vial. The Potions Master wasted no time, throwing it straight into Avery and Nott's path as they barrelled past his hiding place.

Immediately the two Death Eaters burst into flames. They collapsed, screaming, as their burning bodies lit up the forest. Snape didn't stop to feel proud as his experimental potion did its job admirably. Instead, he withdrew another and threw it at Crabbe as he ran by. The hulky man collapsed, his eyes bulging as he clawed at his throat.

Snape fled, not lingering to watch Crabbe faint from the effects of the invisible, poisonous gas. He sprinted back to where he had originally Apparated, praying to the gods that the Dark Lord hadn't put up an Anti-Apparition ward.

He was just about to attempt his escape when a "_Crucio_!" from behind caught him off guard. Awkwardly he threw himself out of harm's way, rolling on the ground to stop in a kneeling position.

"_Expelliarmus_!" he shouted, narrowly missing McNair as he backed into the woods. The spell bounced harmlessly off of a tree and dissipated in the night air.

"_Impedimenta_!"

"_CRUCIO_!"

This time, Snape knew he was caught. With a sinking feeling in his chest he blocked Bella's supercharged Cruciatus curse, but couldn't turn in time to dodge Malfoy's Impediment Jinx. He fell to the ground, frozen and defeated.

Many colourful swear words ricocheted off his skull as the four remaining Death Eaters surrounded his prone body. He heard Malfoy shout "_Incarcerous_!" and felt magical ropes binding him effectively just as the Impediment Jinx wore off.

"Well, well; if it isn't wittle Snapey," said Bella in her baby voice. "What a pwesent for the Dark Lord!" She cackled down at him and kicked him viciously in the ribs.

Snape leered up at his captors. "It never ceases to amaze me that Voldemort allows such idiots to serve him." He smirked at the scandalised expressions that glared down at him. "Like master, like servant, I suppose."

"Wretch!" screeched Bella, kicking him in the stomach and chest. "You dare speak his name! _Crucio_!"

The spy managed not to scream, an ability he had been cultivating ever since the fateful night he had joined the Death Eaters. How he wished he had not been so stupid! He did, however, get quite a bit of amusement from frustrating his captors, who clearly wanted to hear him scream his throat raw.

"Bella, that's enough!" snapped Lucius a minute or so later. "Our Master wants the traitor relatively untouched. The honour of breaking him belongs to the Dark Lord and none other." Bella sneered at her fellow Death Eater, but dutifully backed away from their captive. Not even she would dare provoke Lord Voldemort's ire.

Snape, who decided that since this was his last night alive he should take full advantage of it, was about to tease them on this point when he was roughly jerked to his feet. He found himself enveloped in Goyle's gorilla-like arms before being carelessly tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Come on then," said Bella sourly. Everyone knew how much she hated to be deprived of torturing someone.

The odd procession set off into the black woods, their way lit by a quick Lumos spell from Lucius. Snape wriggled experimentally in his bonds. They held him fast, and his struggles earned him a sharp cuff to the back of the head from his captor.

"Be still, or I'll slam you into a tree," rumbled Goyle. If not for Snape's desire to face the Dark Lord with all his faculties intact, he would have gladly welcomed Goyle's invitation. Merlin knew it was better than being lugged about in such an undignified manner.

At that thought, Snape snorted to himself. He seemed to be developing a rather dark, ironic sense of humour in the face of his dire predicament.

The Death Eaters and their prisoner continued on in silence before coming upon a torch-lit clearing a few minutes later. Snape, who had been rapidly devising escape plans in his head, nearly groaned. From what he could see of the clearing, at least fifty more Death Eaters were present.

"Bring the traitor forward," hissed an unnaturally high-pitched voice. Snape's blood ran cold, and he couldn't suppress a shiver of dread. Goyle jerked the one-time spy off his shoulder and spun him around to face the bane of the Light's existence.

Lord Voldemort sat on a throne in the midst of the clearing in all his wicked glory. The light from the torches danced on his chalk white face, making his red snake-like eyes glow like malevolent fire. One of his skeletal hands gripped the arm of the throne like a white spider, while the other held an ebony wand trained at Snape.

Suddenly Goyle painfully gripped Snape's arms and shoved him forward, forcing him to kneel before the Dark Lord's throne. As his knees hit the hard ground, he found that his captors had completely forgotten to disarm him, instead choosing to gloat over his capture. Swiftly he Occluded his mind, careful not to let his elation show on his face or in his thoughts.

"Ssseverusss," hissed the Dark Lord coldly. Snape resisted the urge to recoil. "Sssuch a disssapointment. I alwaysss liked you, you know. My mossst faithful of followerssss…fond of torturing ssstupid Mugglesss with your ingeniusss poisonsss…" He stroked his chin, giving Severus an appraising look.

Snape didn't quite care for the tone of nostalgia in the monster's voice. Past experience dictated that when Voldemort waxed nostalgic with someone, it meant that person could look forward to a particularly painful death.

The Dark Lord certainly didn't disappoint. "_Crucio_!" he snarled, suddenly overcome with rage. Snape bit down on his bottom lip, determined not to scream for the Lord as he had not screamed for the servants. An agonising minute later Voldemort lifted the curse, his red eyes flashing angrily at being denied the screams of the traitor before him. Slowly he picked himself up from his throne, black robes whipping about his skeletal frame in a non-existent wind.

"I have alwaysss enjoyed that about you, Ssseverusss," he said, light amusement tingeing his voice as he stopped just before Snape. Snape resolutely locked his gaze on Voldemort's feet. "You were alwaysss ssso ssstubborn, ssso ssstrong. It endsss tonight!" Despite himself, Snape flinched at this proclamation. The Dark Lord was notorious for keeping such promises.

Abruptly a cold, dry hand grasped his chin, forcing his head back. "Look at me, Ssseverusss!" snarled the Dark Lord as he jabbed the point of his wand into the soft flesh of Snape's throat. "I want to sssee the fear in your eyesss as I ssslowly take your worthlesss life!"

Snape gazed into the angry red eyes of the barely-human being before him. He felt Voldemort sharply probing his mind and automatically strengthened his mental shields. Long ago he had promised Albus that even if he was captured, he would protect the Order's secrets until the moment he died.

Feeling reckless, Snape narrowed his eyes and spat in the Dark Lord's face. "Go to Hell, you sadistic bastard!"

Shocked gasps rippled throughout those gathered in the clearing. That someone – a traitor, no less! – would dare address their Lord in such a manner was unthinkable!

Apparently, Voldemort agreed with them. With a hiss of undisguised wrath, he backhanded Severus and sent him sprawling onto the grass at the Dark Lord's feet. "_Crucio!_" Snape writhed on the ground in pain, his bonds digging into his body. He felt his teeth bite through his bottom lip; felt the blood run down his chin, and still, he refused to scream.

This infuriated Voldemort even more. "Beat him, kick him, break him!" he hissed to his followers, who immediately complied. Never once did the Dark Lord let up on the Cruciatus Curse.

Five minutes later, Snape felt as if a herd of hippogriffs had run him over. He could feel at least two broken ribs, a broken ankle, and a head wound that was certainly a concussion. Above him, the Death Eaters gazed down at him in triumph. Even worse than seeing Lucius Malfoy's arrogant features gloating was seeing Voldemort's skeletal face contorted in malevolent glee.

"Thisss, my preciousss ssservantsss, isss the price a traitor paysss for betraying me," Voldemort said from above, nudging Snape's wounded body none-too-gently with the toe of his boot. "I sssuggessst that anyone elssse presssent contemplating the sssame thing mark well hisss fate!" Snape could just imagine the look the Dark Lord was giving his servants at that moment. He was terribly glad he was on the ground and didn't have to see it himself.

While Voldemort was busy terrifying his followers with promises of death should they betray him, Snape experimentally tested for Apparation wards. To his immense delight, he found nothing. He snorted. Apparently Voldemort was counting on hurting him so much that he would be too weak to do much of anything at all.

His thoughts were interrupted as the snake man addressed him again. "Ssso, Ssseverusss. Are you going to beg me for mercy? Pleassse, do it. Not that it will get you anywhere…" Several Death Eaters laughed at this. Snape rolled his eyes, too busy concentrating on pulling strength from untapped reserves to pay attention to the gloating words above him.

The Death Eaters amused themselves for a few more moments, taunting him with gory descriptions of torture. Just as Severus was convinced that he had found enough energy within him to Apparate a short distance, they abruptly fell silent. His mind was just starting to wonder why when a hand roughly jerked him from the ground by his hair. His cry of pain died on his lips when he came nearly nose to nose with the Dark Lord.

"What sssay you, Ssseverusss? Will you beg, for my pleasssure? I promissse your death will be much ssswifter should you do ssso," he said, an unholy expression of delight on his chalk white features.

Snape had had enough. Surreptitiously tightening his hold around his wand, he scowled at Lord Voldemort. "Oh shut _up_, you stupid, blathering Mudblood!" he snarled in a voice usually reserved for the likes of Potter and Longbottom.

The following moment of shocked silence greatly amused the Potions Master. Even Voldemort himself seemed to be in denial. Snape took the time to smirk cheekily before mustering his strength and Apparating away.

* * *

"Oof!" Snape landed heavily on ground that turned out to be quite hard and very wet. Rain pelted his abused body, and the cold night air attacked any skin exposed to it. Shakily he pushed himself to a sitting position, swiping a hand across his eyes to wipe away blood and rain.

The forest to his left looked depressingly familiar. A sudden burst of lightning illuminated black, dead trees and sparse vegetation. The answering boom of thunder left him momentarily deaf. Snape just managed to catch a glimpse of what looked like a village to his right when another shock of lightning lit up the sky and blinded him.

"Damn it!" he swore, waiting for the afterglow to fade away from his eyes before attempting to stand. Leaning on a tree made a much easier job out of it, but he did fall a few times. His drenched robes were very easy to slip on. Cursing freely he stripped off the standard issue Death Eater robe and tossed it into the mud, spitting on it for vindictive pleasure.

Wherever he was, he wasn't as far away from the Death Eaters as he had originally hoped to get. He raised a hand trembling with cold and fatigue to his eyes, shielding his eyes from the lightning and perusing the village off to his right. It had to be a Wizarding village; to his knowledge, no Muggles lived this far away from their cities and civilisation in general. Shivering violently in the cold autumn night, Snape peevishly wished he was anywhere but where he was. Except, of course, back in the Death Eater's clearing. Even _this_ – wherever _this_ was – was better than that. Sighing, he moodily snapped a branch off the tree to serve as a crutch and tottered his way through the rain toward the village. He was already soaked to the skin; a little more water couldn't possibly hurt.

Just as he was nearing the outskirts, a chill that had nothing to do with the frigid weather went down his spine. He froze. The only time he ever had that particular sensation was when he was being watched or followed. Risking a glance behind himself, he saw, to his immense dismay, shadows even darker than the night near the forest. Fate chose that moment to send another burst of lightning, which revealed at least a dozen Death Eaters looking in his direction.

Suddenly filled anew with adrenaline, Snape didn't wait to see if they had seen him. He cursed violently and began to run as fast as he could. His broken ankle protested painfully, but he ignored it. His life was far more important at the moment, and pain was merely an easily ignored agitator.

The wind carried angry voices to his ear. His heart beat wildly somewhere in the vicinity of his throat; they were closing the gap! "Damn, damn, damn!" His black eyes darted about frantically, searching for someplace to hide. An old stone building loomed up in front of him, surrounded by a wrought iron gate. What looked suspiciously like tombstones littered the lawn in front of the building. He quickly changed course and made for the building, hobbling along on his crutch and gasping. Running after severe bouts of the Cruciatus Curse and an old-fashioned Muggle beating was certainly not something Snape would recommend.

The wooden doors were centimetres from his fingertips when his crutch caught in a hole in the stone walkway. "Bloody hell!" he exclaimed as he collapsed face-first on the remaining step. His breath came in short, painful gasps as he attempted to push himself to his feet. Snape swore again as his weary arms gave out, putting him back in the same position, only with much less energy.

"Get him!" voices shouted in the storm behind him. _So it ends_, Snape thought despairingly. Too tired to go on fighting, the Potions Master laid his forehead on the stone, waiting for rough hands to grab him and Apparate him off to Voldemort and a slow, painful, torturous death.

Suddenly light pierced the darkness. Reflexively Snape lifted a hand to protect his eyes from the glare. He vaguely wondered if he wasn't already dead and this was the proverbial light at the end of the dark tunnel when gentle but firm hands grabbed his arms and dragged him up the stairs. A resounding bang behind him startled him, and with his last vestige of strength, Snape looked to see the backside of the wooden doors of the building outside which he had collapsed.

Presently he became aware that he was not alone, and looked up to see a man in a black robe kneeling next to him. For a moment Snape panicked, thinking the man a Death Eater, when angry voices and insistent pounding confirmed that the Death Eaters were still outside.

Pieces fell into place within his tired mind, and he belatedly realised that this was the person who had pulled him inside. Suddenly filled with a need to protect his protector, Snape weakly reached out and tugged the man's sleeve.

"They're…Death Eaters…run…leave me; I am…the one they want," he gasped. The effort of speech left him even more exhausted than before, and he fell back down onto the cool, dry stone floor.

"Do not worry, friend," said a mild voice from above him. "Those evil men are barred from entering this place by their very nature."

Snape decided that being confused and exhausted was far worse than being just merely exhausted. "What do you mean?" he whispered as loudly as he could.

The pounding and shouts were joined by curses and hexes that rattled the doors. But, just as his companion had told him, they could not enter. After a few more minutes of trying to force their way inside, the Death Eaters apparently realised that their efforts were futile and left the two men inside alone. Bitterly Snape hoped that Voldemort would torture them soundly when they returned empty-handed.

A hand on his forehead brought Snape back to the present, and he looked up into the face of his rescuer. The man appeared to be middle-aged, with dark hair and eyes and a pleasant expression on his oval-shaped face. A pair of rectangular spectacles sat on the end of a long, slightly pointed nose. Dimly Snape realised that the man was speaking to him, and weakly shook his head to let him know he hadn't understood.

The man gave him a smile worthy of Albus Dumbledore and fiddled with his glasses. "I said, you seem to have gotten yourself into a bit of trouble," he repeated patiently, humming a tune Snape didn't know to himself as he resumed poking about Snape's body.

"Can you stand?" he asked moments later, then rolled his eyes in a self-deprecating manner. "Of course you can't, not with that broken ankle of yours. My apologies. It is a bit late, even for me. Here, let give me your hand."

Hesitantly Severus took the proffered hand, giving the man a quizzical look as he did so. Who was he, and why was he helping a stranger being chased by obviously dangerous men? And, while he was on _that_ subject, why weren't they able to follow him inside? He haltingly voiced these questions to his companion as he leaned heavily on his shoulder.

The man chuckled genially and helped him sit down on a wooden bench. At second glance, the room was lined with wooden benches, and at the front there was a small wooden table on which sat a cross and two chalices. Behind it sat a pulpit. Ah. He was in a church.

"My name is Lawrence Beckett, and I'm the pastor of the Wizarding church here in Kilterbury," his rescuer said. After poking and prodding Severus gently for a few more moments, he withdrew a short wand from his sleeve. "_Accio_ towel and bowl." As soon as the objects appeared in the room, Snape's rescuer filled the bowl with a water charm. After dipping the towel in the bowl of warm water, the pastor gently set about cleaning off Snape's blood-stained face.

"And as to why I'm helping you…" Pastor Beckett continued, "well, that is my job." He chuckled and wrung the towel out on the ground. "I'll clean it up later," he said at Severus's incredulous look.

The man then asked Severus to remove his frock coat, cravat and shirt so he could clean any wounds on his chest. Too exhausted to argue, Snape meekly complied, though he did feel a bit awkward stripping to the waist in front of a complete stranger.

He watched the pastor as he cleaned the less serious cuts and abrasions, soaking up much of the blood with the wet towel. His normally pale skin was a mottled purple where the ribs had been broken. "They certainly did a number on you," his rescuer remarked cheerfully. Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes and groan. The man was almost a direct personality clone of Albus eternally-happy Dumbledore!

"I'll need to get some healing potions for the more serious wounds and the broken bones," Pastor Beckett said after a few minutes. "You'll be fine here; none of evil disposition can enter this place. It is protected by the holy power of God." With that said, Snape's companion got up and disappeared through a doorway to Snape's left.

Absently Snape realised that his last question had finally been answered. He sniffed disbelievingly to himself. "'Holy power of God.' Yes, whatever you say, Pastor…"

He took the chance to look about the small Wizarding church. Behind the table with the cross on it there was a large tapestry depicting three men being crucified. The one in the centre had some sort of nimbus about his head. Snape supposed this was Jesus; as a child he remembered his mother telling him stories about someone by that name. The other tapestries and murals in the room confirmed his suspicions, as did the small but beautiful stained glass windows near the front of the church.

At one point he recognised one person depicted on a tapestry. The man was standing amid what looked like a garden, a wand spouting white light held aloft in his left hand. His face, framed by brown locks, looked gentle and sincere. He had seen this person before, in many textbooks on medical and healing potions, and of course, in the establishment that held his name. "St. Mungo…" Severus murmured.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Snape jumped, not aware that Pastor Beckett had re-entered the main sanctuary. He half-heartedly gestured at the tapestry of St. Mungo.

"Just…looking," he managed to say before erupting in a bout of dry, hacking coughs.

"Interesting, aren't they? Here, drink this," the pastor added, passing Snape a glass vial.

For the first time in his life, Snape accepted the potion without question and downed it without asking first what it was. There was something about his companion that demanded he trust him.

"…thank you…" Snape whispered after drinking the medicine. Pastor Beckett gave him a kind smile and took the vial, only to replace it with another. The Potions Master, too exhausted to protest, drank that one too. Uncomfortable but not painful movements in his chest and head followed, and Snape was delighted to find that he could breathe unhindered once again. The concussion seemed to be gone as well. Gratefully he nodded to the pastor, who gave him a jovial smile in return.

"There is a special room for guests here," he said as he gave Snape back his clothing. "I highly recommend that you stay here until you're fully rested and healed."

"I would like that," the dark-haired wizard replied. He glanced once more about the church, suddenly overcome with strong feelings of longing, as if there was a hole in his heart yearning to be filled. Confused, he looked to the pastor, who had gone to the podium and was shuffling parchments about.

"This place…it intrigues me," he confessed a few moments later, eyes trained on his feet in embarrassment.

"I'd be happy to answer any questions you might have in the morning," his companion said. Even though Snape had only just met him, he could hear a smile in the other's voice. It almost made Snape smile himself, but such an action was nearly foreign to a face accustomed to sneering and scowling. Instead his lips twitched upwards a bit, and he looked up into the cheerful face of the pastor.

"Would you…show me to the guest room? Please?" he added. Yet another thing he was unaccustomed to: being polite. What was it about this place that had such a positive effect on his normally negative disposition? Snape chalked it up to exhaustion and decided to analyse the question more in the morning.

"Of course," said Pastor Beckett. He walked down a few steps and over to the pew Snape sat in. He offered his hand, pulling the younger man to his feet and wrapping an arm around his waist to support him. Deeply mortified at being so weak and vulnerable, Snape carefully did not look at his companion's face and instead gazed about at his surroundings.

The two men passed through what appeared to be a study, lined with bookcases. At the far end near another stained glass window there sat a desk piled high with books, parchments and an inkwell and quills. Three comfortable looking chairs sat around the desk.

"My office," said Pastor Beckett, following Snape's gaze. Snape nodded absent-mindedly, his mind fixated on the books and his hands eager to pick them up and read them. Had he the strength, he would have perused the nearest bookcase, but instead allowed himself to be steered out of the office and down a short hallway lined with four doors.

Pastor Beckett was humming to himself again as he stopped by the nearest door, opening it and helping Snape inside. A plain but comfortable-looking bed was on the far wall, accompanied by a small wooden nightstand on which burned a single candle. A wardrobe sat next to it. On the opposite wall sat a desk, supplied with an inkwell, quills, and parchment. A simple wooden chair completed the ensemble rather nicely.

"Here, let me help you to the bed. You must be exhausted," the pastor said after letting Snape look about his room. He sat down on the bed and made to lay down when, to his surprise and embarrassment, his companion knelt down and gently began to remove his shoes.

"I…you don't have to do that!" Snape protested, his pale skin flushed a rather bright red colour. Pastor Beckett merely chuckled.

"No, I don't; but I want to. Helping other people is something I'm rather good at, if I do say so myself," he said, sitting back on his heels to face Snape. His smile dimmed somewhat as he noticed that Snape's extreme discomfort with the situation.

"I am not used to…such displays of kindness," Snape managed to choke out through his embarrassment. He refused to meet his companion's eyes, which he was sure were filled with disgust or, even worse, pity.

"Indeed?" was his companion's only reply for a few moments. Then, "That is a shame."

Surprised, Snape looked up to see only kindness in the other's dark brown eyes. "How so? You do not know me. For all you know, I could be the most despicable person in the world!" Snape didn't mean to yell at his rescuer, but speaking what he considered to be the truth seemed to sharpen his tongue.

His outburst was met by yet another infuriating smile. "For starters, I don't have to know you personally to be kind to you. Kindness to others is something heavily stressed in the Bible. And I know you are not, to quote you, 'the most despicable person in the world' because of the simple fact that you were able to come inside. As I told you before, this place is protected by the holy power of God. None held by the power of evil with no wish to resist it can enter here. If I might be quite frank, I don't think your coming here tonight was an accident."

Snape gaped at him, dumbfounded. Here was a man who didn't even know his name or background, and was willing to help him in a time of need! Vaguely he suspected that Pastor Beckett would help almost anyone who would sit still long enough to let him.

After giving Snape an encouraging smile the older wizard rose. "Well, I best let you get your rest. Good night…oh my." He gave another self-deprecating chuckle. "How rude of me! I never even asked for your name. May I?"

Snape was overwhelmed by a feeling that he could trust this man with not only his name, but his life. "Severus Snape," he said, hesitantly holding out his hand. Pastor Beckett took it with a grin and gave him a firm, friendly handshake.

"Good night then, Severus!" With another chuckle and smile he was out the door and closed it behind him to give his guest privacy.

Shaking his head in amazement, Snape got ready for bed. Stripping to his shorts he climbed into bed and blew out the candle. As he snuggled down into the surprisingly comfortable blankets and pillow and drifted off to sleep, he heard a pleasant tenor voice singing. It was the tune the pastor had been humming to himself earlier.

"…_whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say: It is well; it is well with my soul_."

* * *

A/N: So…what does anyone think? I already have about seven chapters planned out so far. My usual policy does stand, though; as long as one person is reading this, it gives me incentive to finish. I don't really want to take up bandwidth space with a story no one is reading. Although, I will probably finish it even if I don't post it here. It is more of a personal project than anything. But, it is my hope that maybe someone will be touched by it, as arrogant as that sounds…so…even if you're just reading to read, please, enjoy!

Oh, and if anyone would like to beta for me, just let me know…heaven knows I need one. : )

Shadow Ballad


	2. Chapter 2: Pass Me Not

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad

Genre: Drama/Spiritual  
Pairings: None so far  
Timeline: AU fifth year, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin  
Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )

There are also some HBP spoilers, mostly just titbits about Snape, nothing too serious. Just so you know.

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews! Every single one has inspired me to keep going with the story: ) Special thanks to Ominous Voices, who has kindly offered to beta this story! So any mistakes you find are mine; in my infinite stupidity. : )

Disclaimer: I own nothing, absolutely nothing:D

* * *

Chapter Two: Pass Me Not 

_Pass me not, O gentle Saviour  
__Hear my humble cry.  
__And while on others, thou art calling:  
__Lord, do not pass me by._

_I'm kneeling here in deep contrition  
__And would I seek thy face.  
__Lord won't you heal my wounded, broken spirit:  
__Lord, save me by thy grace.  
__Pass Me Not, O Gentle Saviour_

Severus woke slowly, feeling more rested than he had in quite some time. A jaw-cracking yawn split his face in half as he sat up and blinked sleepily at his surroundings. A nice little desk in the corner…wait…he didn't have a desk in his bedroom!

He sat bolt upright, completely awake, his heart pounding in his chest. Where was this? Why was he here? Where _was_ here, anyway?

Snape reached over and snatched his wand from the nightstand next to his bed, fully prepared to meet any enemy that…wait. He still had his wand. If he truly had been captured by the Death Eaters, they wouldn't repeat the same mistake twice and allow him his weapon. As that thought crossed his mind, images of being chased through a town, in the rain, and stumbling upon a church flashed through his mind.

"Bloody hell." Severus flopped back on his pillows, feeling monumentally stupid as he remembered the previous evening's events. Blearily he rubbed his eyes, wondering just how he had forgotten Pastor Beckett. It had to be very early in the morning; and he was by no stretch of the imagination a morning person. He mumbled a spell and swished his wand about.

Red light shot out of the tip and flashed '6:07' a few times before dissipating into the air. Snape groaned. For all intents and purposes he ought to be used to rising so early in the morning. At Hogwarts he usually got up only half an hour later to shower, dress, and prepare for classes. But now, he couldn't summon the energy to get out of bed, no matter how rested he felt.

Moodily he grabbed at the blankets, pulling them over his head to block the sunlight filtering in through a window above his bed. He had just gotten very comfortable and was dozing off again when someone knocked at his door.

"G'way, Albus…" he muttered into his pillow. "Saturday…snore…"

Once again the sharp knocking jolted him out of near-sleep. He was just about to deliver a rather nasty retort when Pastor Beckett's voice floated to his ears. "Severus? Are you awake in there?"

Snape just barely stopped himself from groaning. What sort of idiot got up before eight o'clock on the weekends? "I am now," he groused loud enough for the pastor to hear.

A pause, then, "Oh, I'm sorry. Well, if it's any consolation, I have coffee and breakfast ready in my own quarters. I'd be happy to share with you."

Snape nearly vomited at the thought of food so early in the day. "Coffee sounds nice," he said, attempting to sound polite and thankful. It merely came out as slightly less grumpy than before.

"Splendid!" came the cheerful voice. "I'll leave you to your business, then. My quarters are down the hallway; turn left, and it's the first door on your right. The loo is the door across from yours."

The younger wizard waited until Beckett's footsteps had died away before punching the wall irritably. Anyone that happy so early in the morning ought to be force-fed poison.

A grunt, groan, and trip to the loo later, Severus was dressed and ready to meet the pastor for coffee. He followed the directions given to him and stopped outside the first door on the right, not sure if he should knock first or just invite himself in. For a moment he was sorely tempted to burst through the door in a fit of furious energy, like he did with his Potions classes. Then he remembered the pastor's kindness (his early-morning wake-up call notwithstanding), and felt guilty for even entertaining the thought. He sighed deeply, not in the mood to be polite, and lifted his hand to knock.

Just before his knuckles met wood the door swung open to reveal the smiling face of Pastor Beckett. Snape blinked in surprise. "There you are! I was beginning to wonder if you weren't coming!" said the older man. Still smiling he gestured for Severus to enter. The Potions Master complied and indulged his curiosity to have a look about.

Pastor Beckett's quarters were not all that different from his own rooms, except that where his walls were bare, a few bookcases and murals made the pastor's rooms more personal. There was also a doorway at the far right, out of which drifted the enticing smell of fresh coffee. Beckett motioned for Snape to join him in that room, which turned out to be a small kitchen.

"I live here," said Pastor Beckett by way of explanation as he poured them each a cup of coffee. "Sugar or cream for you?" Mutely Severus shook his head, preferring his coffee black and bitter. His companion made a mock face of disgust. "Suit yourself," he said, pouring in a liberal amount of cream and a rather large tablespoon of sugar.

Despite himself, Snape felt his lip lift in a sneer. "Would you like some coffee with your sugar and cream?" he asked, scandalised that anyone would ruin good coffee in such a manner. Pastor Beckett gave him a cheery grin.

"No thanks; I rather like it this way," he said. As if to prove his point he took a large sip and sighed happily, leaning back in his chair as if he were in heaven.

Snape rolled his eyes, but wasn't awake enough yet to pursue the issue. He sipped at his coffee as the other puttered about the kitchen, fixing himself a plate of eggs and bacon.

"Would you like some?" He offered the frying pan to Severus, who took one look at it and had to take a giant sip of coffee to keep from gagging.

"No, thank you," he managed to say. The pastor mock pouted and dumped the rest onto his own plate.

"It's not poisoned, you know," he said good-naturedly, taking a large bite of his breakfast.

Severus shrugged. "Food doesn't agree with me so early in the morning," he said.

Beckett nodded in understanding. "My mother was the same way," he said. "Black coffee until ten, then maybe some toast and jam afterwards."

The two men sat in comfortable silence after that, sipping coffee and, in Pastor Beckett's case, chewing on breakfast. Severus was on his third cup of coffee when his companion broke the silence.

"I remember last night that you had a few questions for me," he said mildly. "Is this a good time to discuss them?"

Severus sighed and fidgeted in his chair. He did indeed want to ask quite a few questions, and now was as good a time as any. But…how did one go about it tactfully? He swirled his coffee about before replying.

"I…I am not sure how to say this, but…" Mentally Snape cursed himself. Oh, if only his students could see him now! The evil Potions Master, forever armed with a snarky retort, was speechless!

The pastor inclined his head encouragingly. "I'll listen and not judge you, no matter what you tell me," he said. "Go on whenever you're ready."

Snape was about to sigh and tell his companion to forget it when again the feeling that he could trust this man implicitly engulfed him. Slightly annoyed and wondering if Beckett had cast some spell on him, the younger wizard favoured the pastor with a sharp look.

His companion frowned. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

Quite fed up with tiptoeing around the issue, Snape decided on the candid, blunt approach. "You're wrong about Death Eaters not being able to come inside," he said.

The other raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Oh? Forgive me but, how are you so certain?" he said.

Viciously Snape grabbed his left sleeve and jerked it up on his arm. The Dark Mark stood out against his pale skin like a shadow of death. He thrust it under the pastor's nose; but as he did so, his rage melted away to be replaced by quiet shame.

"Because I am one," he said, refusing to meet the other's eyes.

He was not prepared for gentle hands to grasp his arm and pull his sleeve over the damning tattoo. Shocked, he looked up, prepared to see cold hatred on the other's face. Instead, he found warm acceptance.

"Obviously you aren't a true Death Eater," said Pastor Beckett in a voice barely above a whisper. "Otherwise, you would have been prevented from entering the church and certainly wouldn't be sitting here having coffee with me." He gave Snape one of his friendly little smiles and gave his hand a gentle pat.

Suddenly feelings of great vulnerability and deep humiliation washed over the Potions Master. Unable to comprehend them, he responded in his usual manner and jerked his hand roughly away from the pastor.

"What do _you_ know about it?" he snarled, nearly upsetting his chair as he got up and began to pace furiously. "_You're_ the pastor of a bloody _church_! The most evil thing you've probably ever done is to forget to say grace before a meal!"

Pastor Beckett gaped at him, his mouth opened in a surprised 'o' shape. He made to speak, but Snape instantly cut him off.

"No! Don't say anything! Someone like you could never understand! You've no idea of what I've done; what I've been forced to do to…to…Merlin…" he choked and nearly fell back into his chair, hiding his face in his hands. Hot tears of self-loathing threatened to embarrass him further, as if he could disgrace himself any more than by yelling at the one person besides Albus to have cared for him.

He heard the pastor clear his throat and mentally prepared to be hexed into next week. "Perhaps," said the kind voice," I would understand if you would explain."

For the second time that morning, Snape was shocked speechless. Absently he decided that he didn't quite care for the feeling, but that thought was shoved aside. Here was someone ready to listen, someone who actually wanted to try to understand him. For unexplainable reasons he felt he could trust this man as much as he trusted Dumbledore, but couldn't find the courage to act on that surety. He was not in the habit of trusting someone he'd known for less than a day…but then again, perhaps now an exception could be made.

"Take your time," said the pastor compassionately. "Whatever you say now stays between us and will not leave this room."

It was if a weight had been lifted from his tongue. Suddenly he wanted – no, _needed_ – to talk; to confess; to explain to this man all he had done, why he had done it, and why he was beyond redemption.

"I joined the Death Eaters right after graduating from Hogwarts. It wasn't because I had a terrible home life and an even worse school life, like Al – Headmaster Dumbledore believes. Although they did help me make the decision, it was more that the Death Eaters asked me to join them. For the first time in my life, someone wanted me to be a part of their group. Me, the ugly, greasy little Slytherin loner with nonexistent social skills and an unhealthy interest in the Dark Arts." Here he barked a self-deprecating laugh. "It all sounds a bit cliché, doesn't it? The lonely misfit accepts the invitation of the less-than-legal pureblood club just so he could have friends.

I'm not even a pureblood; my father was a Muggle. I didn't buy into all their anti-Muggle and Muggle-born propaganda; after all, I would be condemning myself if I did. I just went along with it because those people accepted me; maybe even liked me. What a lot of people don't realise is that when the Death Eaters were first beginning, it was more of a social club: get together, rant about non-purebloods and politics, then go home.

Back then I was working for my Potions Mastery, and the Dark Lord promised me knowledge beyond my wildest imagination if I would help him with his 'problems.' Naturally I was flattered that a powerful wizard such as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named even noticed my existence. It was that flattery, I think, that sucked me even further into Death Eater activities. Suddenly I was brewing poisons that could kill with a single drop; creating liquid Cruciatus potions with the power of the Unforgivable curse, but unable to be detected by the Ministry; even draughts that slowly burned a person up from the inside out.

I might have gone on with the Death Eaters if I hadn't been ordered to Hogsmeade to spy on the Headmaster of Hogwarts. While I was waiting for a job interview, I heard some of a prophesy about a child who would vanquish the Dark Lord. I was discovered and thrown out of the establishment before I could hear the rest, but I believed I had heard enough and reported it to the Dark Lord. By then I had risen quite far in the ranks, having recently joined the Inner Circle, so I was allowed to attend the meeting to decide what the make of the prophesy.

I was horrified when I realised that the Dark Lord intended to kill the child of James and Lilly Potter, about whom the prophesy seemed to be about. I had known James since my school days. To say we didn't get along would be an understatement. But Lilly I genuinely liked, even though she never really liked me much; and that was my fault. I didn't want anything bad to happen to her, and I realised that if anything did, it would be my fault.

That night was the first time in two years that my conscious caught up with me. I spent a few days being violently ill before I went to Dumbledore, sick at heart with what I'd done and prepared to tell him everything, even if it meant my arrest and eventual death. I don't even remember how I got to Hogwarts, much less inside the Headmaster's office. But I told him everything, showed him the Dark Mark on my arm, and fully expected him to kill me once I finished speaking.

To my surprise, he didn't. He wasn't even angry with me! He…he pulled me into his arms and started crying, saying "You came back; I knew you'd come back to me" over and over again. Naturally I was quite shocked, and together we had a nice little crying session on the floor of his office."

Here Snape stopped, absently wiping a tear from his own eye as he gazed resolutely at the table. Surreptitiously he risked a glance at his companion and found him quietly staring at him. Immediately Severus averted his eyes and set his gaze back on the table.

He took a deep breath and began the second part of his tale. "After that, I was distraught and sickened with grief at what I'd done. I begged Albus to send met to Azkaban so I could pay for the sins I'd committed. Instead, he came up with a more creative, and harsher, penance. He asked me to be his spy among the Death Eaters and report back their movements to him. I very nearly refused. The Dark Lord was a master Legilimens, and while I knew some Occlumency, all it would take to reveal my position would be one look from him. Dumbledore offered to help me master Occlumency, and so I accepted his offer and became his spy.

I did everything I could to keep my role secret, and oftentimes that meant I had to participate in torturing Muggles and Muggle-born or brewing poisons for the Dark Lord. So, even though I was a spy for the Light, I still had to act like the epitome of Darkness. I hated it. I had thought I was done doing such terrible things, but now I did them in the name of the Light instead of the Dark. It didn't make any difference who I did them for; the fact remains that I did them, and can never be forgiven for what I've done."

Feeling rather drained now that his story was told, Snape slumped in his chair and wrapped his arms about his thin torso. Now that Beckett knew everything, it was only a matter of time before the righteous pastor threw his filthy carcass out of such a holy sanctuary.

After a few moments of awkward silence, the pastor broke the silence. "That's not true," he said quietly.

Snape whipped his head up to stare at his companion. "What?"

"That's not true," Beckett repeated, calmly sipping his own coffee.

Snape growled in his throat and unconsciously leaned forward. "What. Isn't. True?" he asked in clipped tones, suddenly on the defensive.

"That you can never be forgiven for what you've done," replied the pastor matter-of-factly.

The Potions Master snorted indelicately. "Oh, really," he drawled. "And who are you to say that with such conviction?"

"Well, for starters, I'm the pastor of a 'bloody church,'" said Beckett with a small smile.

Snape was just about to yell at him for mocking him when he realised something. "You swore," he said dumbly, rage forgotten at the moment.

Pastor Beckett shrugged. "One of my less endearing qualities," he said dismissively. "But, what can I say? I'm human. As are you, I daresay."

Again, Snape snorted. "There are many that would contest that." Then he frowned. "But enough of that. Just because you are a pastor doesn't mean you know everything and have the power to say that I can be forgiven."

Beckett appeared unperturbed at this slightly accusatory statement. "You're right, I don't know everything. But God does, and I have his Word right here." He withdrew a small book from his pocket and sat it reverently on the table. "And in God's Word, it states that if anyone should confess his sins, God is faithful and just and will forgive him his sins and purify him from all unrighteousness."

Snape blinked. "It's a nice thought," he said after a moment's contemplation. "But it sounds too simple. I can't say that I'm convinced."

Beckett's eyes gleamed as he leaned forward eagerly. _He seems to be warming to his element_, thought Snape absently.

"Ever heard of John 3:16?" the pastor asked in an excited voice.

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Apparently not," mumbled Beckett. "Well, it states: 'For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. For the Son of Man did not enter the world to condemn the world, but to save it.'"

"That's it?" asked Severus incredulously. "Just believe in this Son of Man fellow, admit that I've done something wrong, and I'm instantly forgiven of sins so egregious I still have nightmares about them?" He winced inwardly at that last bit. Beckett didn't really need to know he had nightmares, and he was quite embarrassed to admit it.

The pastor didn't seem to have noticed his final comment, though. "Well, not really, no. There is more, but in essence, it is that simple. Basically, if someone humbles himself before God, prays, reads God's word, and turns from his wicked ways, as well as believing that Jesus is the Christ, then he will be forgiven and saved," he said. "And the Bible goes on to say in Luke that 'there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.'"

Snape gaped at Beckett. "Is that all you do? Sit around and memorise this Bible of yours?"

Beckett gave him a genial smile. "Well, I am the pastor of a bloody church!" he chuckled.

Snape could see right now that what he had originally intended as an insult was quickly turning into a slogan of sorts.

"Besides," said Beckett, serious once again, "I believe that all people are loved by God and need Jesus Christ as their Saviour. That includes you, by the way," he added, a twinkle in his eye that reminded Snape strongly of the Headmaster. "And once they accept Him, they will be redeemed and forgiven and free from the condemnation of sin."

He gave Snape a look that could only be described as triumphant and sipped his coffee. The Potions Master was just about to sit back in his chair and mull over the information given him when the pastor began to cough and choke.

"It's cold," Beckett spluttered, making a terrible face. Snape smirked and returned the triumphant look upon the pastor.

"So I noticed," he said silkily. Beckett made another face at Severus before getting up, rinsing out his mug and putting it in the sink.

"Are you done with yours?" he asked politely. Snape nodded and handed over his mug to be washed.

"Well, did I answer your questions to your satisfaction?" the pastor asked, turning around and placing his hands on his vacated chair.

Snape nodded slowly. "Yes, I believe you did. You've certainly given me quite a lot to ponder over, in any event."

Beckett smiled. "Well, I'll leave you to ponder it, then. I've still got to prepare for my sermon tomorrow. A word of advice: if you're ever preparing a sermon to deliver on Sunday, don't wait until Saturday to do it." He chuckled and bid Severus good day before leaving, humming as he walked out the door.

Snape shook his head in amazement at the man's good humour before getting up and wandering back to his room. The parchment and ink caught his eye. He really should write a letter to Albus; let him know that he was found out, but was perfectly safe for the moment. The only question was: did Pastor Beckett have an owl to deliver it?

Making up his mind to ask, the Potions Master made his way to the pastor's study. Beckett was sitting at his desk, surrounded by books and loose parchments. He seemed to be in the middle of writing something, as there was a quill in his hand. He kept tapping the feather against his cheek, as if he didn't know what to write, and was glaring at the parchment much the same way Snape stared at first-year essays.

Not wanting to disturb the other man, Snape cleared his throat and took a step into the room. Beckett looked up, a bit startled, but smiled when he saw his guest. "Ah, Severus! What can I do for you?" he asked kindly.

"I was just wondering if you had an owl that I could borrow," said Snape. "I wanted to write a letter to my employer to let him know where I am and that…" Here he paused, not sure if he should invite himself into Beckett's company unasked. "…that I would like to stay for a little while longer," he finished, voice barely above a whisper.

Beckett, however, didn't seem the least bit angry at Severus's inviting himself to stay. "Really? You want to stay? Splendid!" he exclaimed, clearly ecstatic with the idea. "Thaddeus – my owl – is in the bell tower. Silly thing; it's a miracle he isn't deaf." Beckett shook his head incredulously at his familiar's behaviour. "Ah well. Anyway, to get there just take the right hand fork at the corner and take the stairs at the end of the hallway. I might add that if you bring a treat, he'll get the letter to your employer faster."

Severus thanked the pastor and returned to his room to write his letter to Albus. He took a sheet of parchment, dipped a quill in the ink, and managed to write "_Headmaster_," before realising he didn't know what to say. _Headmaster: I was discovered as a spy and tortured, but managed to escape before they killed me. I'm at a church in Merlin knows where, and even though I have duties teaching at Hogwarts, I want to stay longer because the pastor is quite nice and is telling me very interesting things_.

He sighed and scrunched up the parchment. How did one tell one's employer that one was safe, but unwilling to come back to work because one's rescuer had said some intriguing things about forgiveness and redemption?

Absently he swished the end of the quill back and forth across his lips. What to write? He snorted, finally deciding on something quick, simple, and not too informative should the owl fall into enemy hands.

Letter written and rolled up, Snape walked down the hallway, turned right, and took the stairs to the belfry only to be met with a trap door. Impatiently he reached up, opened the door, and climbed the rest of the way into the tower. Inside hung an enormous bronze bell, nearly as tall as Severus. It smelled like the owlry at Hogwarts and was coated in a thin layer of dust, but surely wasn't big enough for an owl to hide in.

He searched about the small room, looking for the owl, when it suddenly landed on his shoulder and began biting his ear. "Hey!" Snape shouted, swiping the bird off his shoulder. It gave an indignant squawk and landed on a nearby rafter, the wind from its wings stirring up the dust and making Severus choke.

Snape, none too fond of owls to begin with, glared at the creature. It was covered in scraggly dark grey feathers and was so fat the Potions Master couldn't see its feet. Big yellow eyes glared into Severus's black ones, and for a moment man and owl held a staring contest.

Severus, quite used to glaring down anyone and everyone, won, and with a grumpy hoot the owl allowed him to tie his letter to its foot. "Take this to Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Snape told it gruffly. He walked to a small window and opened the shutters so the owl could fly out.

When he turned around, Thaddeus the owl hadn't moved a single feather.

"Well? What are you waiting for, Christmas?" snapped Snape, very annoyed with the animal. The owl blinked lazily at him with its big yellow eyes, but didn't move.

Growling to himself, Snape walked over to the owl and flapped his arms to frighten it into motion. "Fly! Out! The window!" he yelled, taking a swipe at the owl when it didn't budge. Thaddeus hooted indignantly and flew to another rafter, taking the time to preen its feathers as it settled back down.

Beyond vexed, Snape huffed over to the creature and decided that what it needed was a little motivation, in the guise of chucking it out the window. "All right, you bloody stupid mangy chicken! Out you go!" With dexterity usually shown in the Potions classroom, Snape reached up and snatched the owl off the rafter before the bird could peck his hands. "Gotcha!" he cackled evilly.

Thaddeus hooted angrily and attempted to nip Snape's fingers, but it couldn't manoeuvre its neck around its own bulging stomach and eventually gave up. Snape gave the bird a rather sinister smirk before tossing it out the window. It squawked and fell a metre or two before it began to fly away, shooting a menacing yellow-eyed glare at Snape before it took off into the open air.

Snape rubbed his hands together triumphantly before turning and making his way back down the stairs. Perhaps there was a book about this whole redemption affair he could borrow from Pastor Beckett…A small smile curved his lips at the thought, and, drained from his encounter with Thaddeus, he went in search of a book and a comfortable chair to read it in.

* * *

A/N: Hello, and thanks again for all your reviews and support! And to those readers who didn't review, thanks for reading: ) I know this chapter was kind of boring, but never fear! A few more, and our beloved Severus will be back at Hogwarts, and then the fun can begin! 

:D Hopefully you'll stay around for it: )

Cheers,

Ballad


	3. Chapter 3: Sermon

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad  
Genre: Drama/Spiritual  
Pairings: None so far  
Timeline: AU fifth year, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin  
Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )

A/N: I do not own the sermon Pastor Beckett gives. It belongs to Rev. Kenneth Sauer, Pastor of Parkview United Methodist Church, Newport News, VA. © I have changed a few words so that the sermon will fit in with the British Wizarding world instead of Muggle America, but those are the only changes.

Disclaimer: I don't own, so please don't sue. No one is making any money off of this fic. Remember that. : D And once again, thanks to my beta Ominous Voices! She's really helpful : )

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Chapter Three: Sermon

_The King of Love my Shepherd is  
__His goodness faileth never.  
__I nothing lack if I am His  
__And He is mine forever._

_Traditional Hymn, The King of Love my Shepherd Is  
_

Sunday morning found Albus Dumbledore at his desk, listening to the concerns of one Minerva McGonagall. She sat in a plush armchair across from him, the picture of stoic control, except for the way she twisted her robes nervously with her hands.

"Have you received any news of him, Albus?" McGonagall asked, her Scottish brogue slightly tinged with worry. "He's been gone so long, and rumours are starting to circulate among the students. Many of them entail him being…being dead." She paused and looked at the floor between her shoes. "I fear they might be right."

"Severus has merely been gone two days, my dear," said Albus kindly. The Transfigurations professor looked up, a glint of hope shining in her deep brown eyes. "Many times in the past Voldemort summoned him for work that took up to a week," he added, not noticing her slight flinch as he uttered the dreaded name.

"But You-Know…all right…_V-Voldemort_ could have, have discovered that Severus was a spy and might have captured him! He could very well be dead, Albus! We need to do something to make sure he isn't!" the witch insisted vehemently.

"Minerva, I and the Order are doing everything we possibly can to make sure Severus is alright," said the Headmaster.

McGonagall flushed and lowered her head. "Of course," she murmured. "I'm sorry for losing my head."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "It is all right, my dear." He stifled a distressed sigh. "We're all worried about him."

"Not strictly _all_ of us," said the third occupant in the room. McGonagall turned and favoured the speaker with an icy glower.

"How dare you, Mr. Black," she hissed, quite reminiscent of her feline form. "If you can't set aside your puerile grudge to worry about him personally, worry about the safety of the Order's spy! You have no idea what he's been through in the past, spying on that monster!"

Sirius Black, newly pardoned ex-convict and assistant DADA professor, yawned. "Serves him right for joining up with ol' Voldie's lot in the first place."

Albus had to lean across the desk and bodily restrain the Transfiguration professor from hexing the dark-haired young wizard.

Remus Lupin, the room's final occupant and resident Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, sighed and clapped a hand over his friend's mouth. "That's enough, Padfoot," he said mildly. "There's no reason to antagonise Minerva."

"Thank you, Remus," said the cat Animagus. She jerked her elbow out of Albus's grasp and set to straightening her robes moodily. An awkward silence followed.

During said silence, Dumbledore was reminded of how fortunate Hogwarts was that Remus Lupin was even back teaching at all. After the fiasco at the end of Harry Potter's fourth year with the Death Eater impersonating Moody, he had given the parents and Board of Governors a choice. Either they agree with his decision to hire Lupin, well-known and liked among the students and arguably the best Defence teacher Hogwarts had had the past three years, or take a risk with a complete stranger. Not surprisingly, they had agreed to allow Dumbledore to appoint Remus as the new Defence professor.

"Git can take care of himself," muttered Sirius abruptly. "Unfortunately."

"SIRIUS BLACK!" screeched Minerva, whipping her wand out of her pocket at the same time a tapping came at the window.

Albus, thankful for a distraction, went to allow the messenger inside. A very fat grey owl swooped around the room a few times before attempting to land on Fawkes's perch. The phoenix squawked and pecked at the intruder, who returned the favour before flopping onto the Headmaster's desk.

It hooted once imperiously at Albus before holding out its leg for him to take the message tied to it. Albus smiled at the creature and fished about in his pocket for an owl treat, which it happily gobbled down. The owl looked over at Fawkes, a very smug expression on its feathered face, before it flew back out the window. It was quite interesting to see a smug owl.

"Alright Albus, who's the weird owl from?" asked Sirius curiously.

Albus didn't answer for a few moments, but when he looked up from the parchment, his eyes were twinkling madly.

"Is it from Severus?" asked Minerva, snatching at the parchment to read it herself. The Headmaster nimbly kept it out of her reach.

"Yes, it is," he said, making her eyes light up in relief. Then she frowned.

"He isn't hurt, is he?"

"No, no; he's absolutely fine," said Albus reassuringly.

The three others waited impatiently for him to read it to them, but Albus merely scratched his long nose and gave them an innocent smile.

"Well? Are you going to read it?" asked Sirius, leaning so far forward he was about to fall out of his chair.

"I thought you weren't interested," said Remus.

"I'm not; I just want to know what the git wrote. Morbid curiosity."

"Sirius Black!"

"Ahem," said Albus, not really wanting to deal with another argument. Instantly three pairs of eyes snapped onto him. "It says, _'Discovered, but safe. Intend to stay where I am for an undisclosed amount of time. Don't expect me back until you see me. S.S.'_"

Sirius blinked. "That's it?" Albus nodded happily.

"Well, at least we know he's alright," said Minerva calmly, back to her usual stern calm. "Hopefully he'll have enough sense to stay that way."

Sirius harrumphed. "Hopefully he'll have enough sense to stay gone for good. No one misses the git."

"SIRIUS BLACK!"

Albus sighed. So much for her usual stern calm.

---

At that same moment, Severus was sitting in the back of the church, eagerly listening to Pastor Beckett's sermon while feigning indifference. Earlier he had received a few friendly greetings from whom he assumed to be church members. It surprised him. But then, these people didn't know him and thus could be polite and courteous. If they knew what he'd done in the past…

"Today we will be reading from Genesis 1:1-5," said the pastor. "The first five verses of the Bible inform us that God brought Creation out of chaos. And chaos is a word that we – as witches and wizards – understand in a way that we never have understood it before. In the past few years we have discovered what real chaos is."

He sighed, jerking his mind from melancholy thoughts so focus on the sermon. All day Saturday he had read books, all on the subject of redemption and forgiveness. It hadn't taken him long to learn that he was quite taken with the idea of being forgiven for his past actions. It was, after all, what he'd been searching for since he defected from the Dark Lord so many years ago, but had never been able to find.

"In horror we have witnessed the atrocities He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has wreaked upon our world," continued Pastor Beckett. "We know what this present darkness can do to our children; many have been killed, or have lost loved ones due to his evil influences.

But our God is a God Who brings meaning and order out of chaos! The essence of creation confirms this! 'In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep...'"

Many of the church members had begun sniffling when the pastor mentioned the Death Eaters and their victims. Snape fidgeted in his chair. What would these good people say if they knew what was on his left forearm? Shame washed over him.

Perfectly oblivious to Severus's inner dilemma, Pastor Beckett continued on with his sermon. "The earth was without form, it was unshaped, undeveloped, and unfinished...These are tough words, words of chaos, and hopelessness.

But maybe that's the point.

All of us, at some time or another have found something about our lives that can be described with words like formless, empty, and dark. And as we go into the world, we come face to face with other people who feel as if these are the words that describe their lives as well.  
They feel as if there is no hope…that everything is formless and empty, and that darkness covers everything."

Snape found himself agreeing with the man's words. How many times in the past had he sat in his chambers, feeling exactly that: formless, empty, and dark? Too many times to merit remembering.

He could also agree with the feeling of having no hope. What chance was there for an ex-Death Eater spy to live in peace, when his deeds followed him like a black smoke never to be extinguished? Even if – no, _when_ – the Light won the war, he would be despised as the remnant of something terrible.

No. Peace was for those with pure souls untainted by the darkness, not for those like him.

"Have you ever felt as if everything was out of order in your life…like nothing was fitting together properly as it should?" Pastor Beckett's voice suddenly asked. It was almost if the pastor was speaking only to him, Severus Snape, and not to an entire congregation. Slowly he lifted his head from his hands and glanced up at the podium.

"Many of us say things like: 'Nothing ever works out right,' or 'my personal life's a mess' or 'my career is in shambles…this is not how I planned life to be.'"

Absently Snape nodded. He was guilty of that very thing.

"There is only one way to have our lives move from the chaotic to the state where there is real peace and real order. We need God's creative power! We must put our lives in His hands, and let Him direct us."

Snape mentally balked at that. He had had enough with putting his life in another's hands; first with the Dark Lord, and then with Dumbledore. And he had certainly had enough with people 'directing' him and telling him what to do, thank you very much! This was _not_ what he had wanted or expected to hear. Narrowed eyes watched the pastor, a feeling of betrayal washing over him.

The pastor had left his pulpit and was pacing slowly on the dais. "God has a plan for all of us. A perfect plan.

And yet so many of us are chasing our tails.  
…our family lives may be dysfunctional…  
…our finances may be a mess…  
…we may have relationship problems…  
…our lives may be constantly in upheaval.

Why?

Because too many of us are trying to live life according to our own wisdom to achieve our own desires. And when we're calling the shots…God isn't! When we're calling the shots, we are devoid of God's creative power.

But the good news is that there is no chaos that is too great for God to be able to turn into order. The Bible tells us that Abraham believed this. God 'gives life to the dead and calls things that are not as though they were.' And because Abraham believed this, he became the father of many nations!

Nothing is impossible with God."

Well…when put that way, perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing to let this God govern one's life. It seemed to have good benefits, at the very least. Merlin knew his life was the very definition of chaos, and any help he could get to straighten it out was more than welcome. Begrudgingly interested once again, Snape bent forward and listened even more intently than before.

"Many people complain about the meaninglessness of life," said Beckett. Snape felt his face flush a tiny bit. Guilty there as well. "Some people get to the point where they are ready to give up on life—not necessarily because of the hardships they are facing—but because of their boredom, the monotony, the lack of purpose. And this is what King Solomon felt whenever he looked at life on earth without reference to God.

In the book of Ecclesiastes he cries: 'Meaningless! Meaningless….Everything is meaningless.'  
In other words, it's all in vain—life is just the passing of time. And without God, this is true. We exist, but nothing more. Only God can turn empty years into full seasons!

I love living in Scotland where we can enjoy 4 seasons. Autumn is approaching, and we will see all those beautiful colours as the leaves start falling from the trees. Winter will be next. We will have crisp mornings, cold rains…and of course, snow and wind. This gets us truly ready for spring—when the warmth starts to return and everything seems to brighten. And finally, we have summer, with its inviting warmth and peace."

Snape snorted. 'Inviting warmth and peace,' indeed! Nothing was ever inviting and warm, not to him.

"Aren't the seasons wonderful?" exclaimed Beckett with his usual enthusiasm. "Each of them has its own peculiar beauty. I love the seasons, and God created them. He hung the stellar bodies in place, and He marked out the seasons. Only God can make the days and weeks flow together in rhythm. Only God can put meaning and purpose into life. As Christians we still experience difficult seasons…trials and hardships. There is winter as well as spring. But God causes even those times to have purpose. We soon learn that 'in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.'"

Well, that was all well and good if one was a Christian. But, what if one wasn't?

"Yes, 'the earth was formless and empty; darkness was over the deep…' But you know what? 'The Spirit of God was hovering over the waters.' What an incredible gift, to know that, when we need God the most, God is right there, waiting for us to turn to Him, waiting to create life in an otherwise empty world. When we get to the point in our lives, when it seems as if everywhere we look, there is nothing but darkness…right there on the edge…we will find God! God is always there, waiting and watching; wanting to create something extra-ordinary in our lives!

And you know what?

If we are willing to let Him, this is exactly what He does. The Bible tells us that anyone who comes to Christ Jesus is a new creation: 'the old is gone, the new has come!'" Pastor Beckett gave the people a huge smile. Snape shook his head in amazement. Here was a man so enthusiastic about his faith, his beliefs, that he couldn't help but be happy. Again, a deep sense of longing encompassed Snape's heart. Perhaps _he_ wanted that as well…

"On the first day, God gave the earth light. Not the sun and moon kind of light; but a Divine Light. That's right, God brought Light to the earth 3 days before He made the sun and the moon and the stars! And that's the first thing God does when He begins working in our lives—He fills us with His divine Light!

Jesus said, 'I am the light of the world.' And John chapter 1 tells us that 'in him was life, and that life was the light of men.' So, when we turn to God we find the light of Jesus Christ, we discover a hope and a promise and a future! We discover, much to our amazement, that God has been there all along, and now, as we trust Him, He is going to do great things in our lives!"

As he listened, Severus briefly wondered if Pastor Beckett had written the sermon with himself in mind. He heard the man's words not only with his ears, but with his heart as well. Hope…promise…a future. The three things he most wanted, and the three things he thought he would never have.

But, here was someone he had known for less than two days, telling him, the ex-Death Eater, that these things could be his! And all he had to do was trust this Jesus Christ.

His enthusiasm dwindled somewhat at that. Trust. When was the last time he had fully trusted someone? Even though he respected Dumbledore greatly, could he really say he trusted the man? He risked his life for the Order of the Phoenix, bringing them information, but could he really say he trusted any of them in the slightest? His heart sank. No, he couldn't. Not in good conscience, at least. The Potions Master sighed dejectedly. So much for that…

The pastor was still delivering his sermon, although Snape had missed a bit of it while brooding. He half-heartedly turned his attention back to the man at the pulpit, hoping for more words of encouragement.

"The ninth plague that Moses brought upon the land of Egypt, because Pharaoh wouldn't let God's people go, was the plague of darkness. Exodus chapter 10 tells us that the darkness was so thick that it could be 'felt.' It was so intense that no Egyptian moved from their bed for 3 days. But while the Egyptians were in darkness, just down the road the Israelite slaves had light in their dwellings. Yes, there may be darkness all around—but wherever God commands the light to shine, it shines!

And isn't that a comforting thought?"

Snape found that yes, it was indeed comforting.

"There are still dark moments in my life." Snape snorted, but without his usual venom. Darkness, in this righteous man's life? Absurd. "There are many times that I am confused, and can't see which road to take. But when I seek the Lord, His light comes flooding through. When I read the Bible, meditate on God's Word, and ask for guidance, through prayer God turns darkness into light.

So, even pastors had problems. For some inexplicable reason, Snape felt reassured by this thought.

"And as he does this, He begins to point out the things in our lives that threaten to destroy us.  
As the light of God begins to shine in our lives, it reveals our sin…the sin that Christ died for.

Jesus said, 'I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.'

Life is not measured by the accumulation of things. It's not measured in days or years.  
Full life, abundant life, is measured by our character, by our love—it is measured by our relationship with God."

Unbidden, thoughts of the many sins that threatened to destroy him popped into Snape's mind. His perpetual anger…holding grudges…taking out his temper on innocent students…overwhelming hatred for certain Gryffindors…his time as a Death Eater…so many things. He sighed again and hung his head in a renewed sense of shame. Was anyone else in the room as conflicted as him?

"When God created humankind—Adam and Eve—He created them to have fellowship with Him," Pastor Beckett continued. "And when God gives us New Life—it is again to have that intimate fellowship with God.

If we want to know what it really means to have 'life:'  
…not empty life, not formless life, not life that is filled with darkness…but real 'life'…  
…life that is filled with real peace, real joy, real love…  
…we must come to Jesus Christ! Only the God Who created the world can create real life in us!

God wants us to have an intimate relationship with Him. That's the reason Jesus died on the cross; so that we could receive eternal life through Him and be adopted into God's family.  
And God desires that intimate relationship with every one of us."

Snape lifted an eyebrow, even though Beckett couldn't see it. Absurd. As nice as the notion sounded, a holy God would never want anything to do with the likes of _him_. _What business does an ex-Death Eater like you have wanting that kind of relationship in the first place?_ asked a small inner voice. _You don't deserve it_.

"We have been created in God's image so that we can have fellowship with God…and have meaningful lives. God wants us to be fruitful. Jesus said, 'I am the vine, you are the branches. If a person remains in me and I in them, then he or she will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.' Isn't that what is wrong with much of the world today?  
So many lives are formless, empty, and dark. Chaos abounds! But in Jesus Christ we have form, we have purpose, we have meaning, we have light…we have redemption!"

Redemption. Snape felt his heart swell at the mere mention of it. If he accepted this Jesus Christ as his Saviour, he would have redemption! And not only that, put purpose, and meaning…and a future.

And forgiveness.

Suddenly the Potions Master wanted to learn more about how to go about becoming a Christian. It seemed that all the answers to his problems were in this Bible of Pastor Beckett's, and that Bible was the Word of God, or so the pastor had said. And since Christ was also God…that meant the Bible was his word as well. It all made perfect sense.

Feeling renewed and invigorated, but still a bit unwilling to make such a huge decision without proper thought, Severus vowed to speak with the pastor after the service.

"Formlessness, emptiness, darkness…yes, there is a lot of that around. But when the God of Creation looks at us He sees what we can become! Unlike the Muggle nursery story of Humpty Dumpty, who could not be put together again and was left in pieces, we can be formed and filled anew! God can take all the broken pieces, all the broken dreams, all the broken-up lives and re-create them into something…something…well as the hymn says:

_'Something beautiful,  
something good,  
All my confusion Christ understood.  
All I had to offer Him was brokenness and strife,  
But He made something beautiful of my life.'_

Thank you all for coming this morning. It is my sincere desire that you have been rejuvenated in your faith. For those who do not yet have a relationship with Christ Jesus, I will be available all day today and all throughout the week if ever you wish to come and talk with me. Now let us pray together before we partake of Communion.

Dear Lord, I thank You for all these You have brought into this place of worship this morning. It is my most fervent prayer that You would touch their lives and bless them throughout this week. And for those who do not yet know You, I pray that You would fill them with a deep longing for Your love and desire to know you more. In Christ's name, Amen."

Snape suspected that that last part had been about him, and felt oddly comforted knowing that his – dare he say, friend? – had prayed for him.

He watched curiously as a few members passed around trays with bread and small cups of what looked like wine. The mood in the church had turned reverently sombre, so he bowed his head with respect to whatever sacrament they were observing.

Perhaps one day he would observe it with them.

---

A/N: I know…this was a bit preachy, yes? Sorry! But, I needed to have Pastor Beckett give a sermon that would ignite further interest for Snape in Christianity. I'm hoping that it wasn't too boring…that maybe readers were interested in it. Oh well. Next chapter will be better, I hope! No long speeches…just Severus as he contemplates things and talks with the pastor. And for those readers worrying that Snape is seemingly making a quick decision about the whole thing, please don't be. He won't become a Christian for a few more chapters, and at least a few 'story' weeks. : )

Cheers,

Ballad

_Web Site Copyright Statement: Copyright © by and the authors. This material is provided for personal study or for use in preparation of sermons, Sunday school classes, or other oral communication. This material may be quoted in written form but give credit where credit is due (author's name and web site address: It may not be reprinted for commercial publication. It may be copied or reprinted for distribution as long as it is given away and no charge is made for copies, shipping or handling._


	4. Chapter 4: Confession

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad

Genre: Drama/Spiritual  
Pairings: None so far  
Timeline: AU fifth year, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin  
Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )

A/N: Some people have noted that my Snape is a bit angsty. Sorry! I have an undeniable weakness for Snape angst, and it's bound to show up in my story at some point. If this offends, again, I apologise. I'd also like to take now to mention for those concerned that Snape is going to be like those crazy evangelist preachers on telly, don't worry. He's still going to be Snape, just with a better attitude. : )

I've also borrowed a few things from PoA, just so you know…Cookies and 10 House points to anyone who can figure out what. It's not all that hard. : )

Special thanks once again to Ominous Voices, my beta. Give her cookies for putting up with me. : ) And I know the song is not Christian, but the lyrics just...fit, somehow. : D

Disclaimer: If I owned Harry Potter, I wouldn't be a poor college student with nothing to her name except lots of stuffed animals and a clunky old van, now would I?

----

Chapter Four: Snape's Confession

I have been blind, unwilling to see  
The true love you're giving.  
I have ignored every blessing.  
I'm on my knees confessing

Josh Groban, _My Confession_

----

After the service ended, Snape watched as the congregation exited. Some smiled and talked with others; some looked deep in contemplation, and others actually looked relieved that the service was over. Snape was a bit surprised at those people. Why come if you didn't want to be here?

A few members bid him good day; mostly kindly old ladies, Snape noticed wryly. Instead of telling them to bugger off, as he might have done only three days prior, he found himself politely returning the sentiment. After the well-wishers departed, Severus mentally shook his head. Again he wondered what it was about the place that had such a profound impact on his disposition.

"Oh, I don't know," said a cheerful voice directly behind him. Only Snape's extensive training as a spy prevented him from jumping. "Maybe it was that wonderful sermon Pastor Beckett gave this morning?"

Snape mentally slapped himself; he obviously had spoken that last part of his musings aloud.

"Only you would talk about yourself in the third person," he said dryly, covering his embarrassment with humour.

Pastor Beckett shrugged. "I don't know about that. My father does it all the time, especially when I'm around; but I imagine that's not what you want to talk about at the moment."

"You imagine correctly," said Snape, his earlier amusement draining away to nervousness. He fidgeted a bit, unsure whether or not to broach the subject he wanted to discuss. Deep within he somehow knew that whatever he did or did not say now, in this very moment, would change the course of his life forever.

Summoning the courage to speak, he said, "I…actually wished to speak with you about your sermon."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Snape imagined he felt his entire being _shift_; as though the pattern in which his life was woven had suddenly and irrevocably changed.

At the same time, Pastor Beckett gave a sheepish grin. "Ah, yes…well, that's what happens when I procrastinate; sub-par sermons."

Snape shook his head. "I did not think it sub par," he said. Inwardly he marvelled again at his new…friendliness. In the past he would have heartily torn the sermon apart with his sharp, venomous tongue and left with a sneer.

Well, this was a church, and weren't miracles performed in churches?

"Really? You liked it?" asked his friend excitedly. Snape nodded.

"I…didn't quite understand much of it, seeing as how I myself am not a member of your church. But, it did indeed intrigue me."

"Splendid!" exclaimed the pastor. "I sat for three hours yesterday, you know, writing and writing but throwing everything away, until I thought about you and your questions."

Snape's lips twitched at Beckett's indefatigable enthusiasm. He mentally wondered what the ratio of sugar to coffee his friend had ingested earlier that morning had been.

"I'm honoured," he said with a wry grin. "Do you normally cater sermons to specific people?"

Pastor Beckett returned Snape's grin with one of his own. "Sometimes," he said slyly. "I know most of my congregation rather well. Let's just say I'm not above writing a sermon aimed at a specific person to give them a…_push_ in the right direction."

Snape shook his head in amusement. "You would have made a wonderful Slytherin," he said.

"Funny you should say that; I was one."

The Potions Master's eyebrows rose in surprise. "You were?" he asked, feeling rather stupid. The man wouldn't have said he was unless it was the truth.

Pastor Beckett nodded proudly. "Class of '67," he said. "Ever since I was eight years old, I knew I wanted to be a pastor. It was my life's ambition, and I suppose the Sorting Hat put me in Slytherin for that reason." At Severus's incredulous gaze, he continued. "Many people think that ambition automatically equals evil. Not so. It's only the selfish ambition, that strives to succeed and excel above others at any cost, that is actually evil. Finding the balance between succeeding and not hurting others in the process is, in my opinion, the mark of a true Slytherin, and thus true ambition."

As Snape contemplated his words, the pastor gave a self-deprecating laugh. "And now that I've given another sermon and fully derailed us off topic…what was it about my first sermon that you wanted to talk to me about?"

Snape blinked, momentarily confused at the sudden change in conversation.

Pastor Beckett seemed to notice and laughed again. "Sorry, I get carried away at times. How about continuing our chat in my kitchen over some lunch and tea?"

At the mention of lunch, Severus's stomach gurgled in agreement. Quite surprised to discover how famished he was – having had nothing but his customary cup of coffee for breakfast – he readily agreed and followed the pastor back to his quarters.

"What would you like?" his friend asked as the Potions Master seated himself at Beckett's table. "I can do something simple, like sandwiches, or maybe I should make barely stew. My mother's recipe is absolutely to die for, you know. But, it _is_ Sunday, and tradition dictates a large, delicious meal…so maybe, baked chicken and –"

"Sandwiches are fine," said Snape. He didn't really feel like watching Beckett go through the work of preparing an elaborate meal while he sat like a rock at the table. Besides, he was hungry _now_, and sandwiches would take the least time to prepare.

"Sandwiches it is, then," said Beckett, turning back to his pantry and digging around in it. "Let's see…I've got wheat bread, some cold ham, and cheese. Is that alright?" He turned around, holding the mentioned foodstuffs in his hands.

"Perfectly," said Snape, beginning to feel a little exasperated. Exactly how hard was it to decide what to eat for lunch?

"Splendid!" He put the food on the table and returned to his cabinet to retrieve two plates and cups for tea. Snape bemusedly watched him make the tea and set the water to boiling on the stove. An image of Dumbledore popped into his head, and he wondered how the older man was doing.

The Headmaster's Personality Clone, as Snape sometimes mentally referred to Beckett, finally finished with the tea things and sat down at the table. His face was flushed with the energy of bustling about, and as Snape made himself a sandwich he wondered where exactly that vigour came from.

The two men ate together in companionable silence for time, enjoying the sandwiches. Snape sipped at his tea, surprised to find a delicate mint instead of the Earl Grey Beckett seemed to prefer.

"I hope you like it," said the pastor, watching his guest take another sip. "You seem like a mint sort of man, if I might say so."

Snape nodded, surprised and wondering how the other man had possibly come to that conclusion. The only other person who knew his favourite tea was Dumbledore, and he was however-many-kilometres away, probably enjoying the brunch the house elves prepared every Sunday.

Conversation ceased for a while after that. The thick, filling and slightly salty ham sandwiches were balanced nicely with the mint tea and a tin of shortbread biscuits Beckett found hiding in his cabinet.

"I just love these things!" he exclaimed when he found them, taking one from the tin before it ever reached the table. He sighed in shortbread bliss, leaning back in his chair to savour the biscuit.

The Potions Master smirked, strongly reminded of yet another Hogwarts resident. Minerva McGonagall also had a decided weakness for anything shortbread in nature.

He gave a small sigh as he dipped a biscuit in his tea and munched on it thoughtfully. It was a bit overwhelming, all these reminders of Hogwarts bombarding him at unexpected moments. He found that he missed the place; his classroom, brewing potions, even the little dunderheads he taught.

Well, perhaps not _them_ so much as _yelling_ at them and taking House points.

"So…are we ready to talk?"

Snape jerked himself out of his contemplations, feeling a little guilty thinking about yelling at students whilst sitting in a church.

"I suppose," he said, a feeling of déjà vu washing over him.

Pastor Beckett seemed to feel it too. "You know, if we keep having Really Important Conversations in here, I'll have to start calling it my conference room instead of my kitchen."

Snape snorted at the man's relentless good humour. He was grateful for it, though he might not admit it. It put him at ease; and this time when the feeling that he could trust Beckett came over him, he accepted it without question.

"Indeed," he said, allowing a small smile to grace his countenance. "But, in all seriousness, Pastor Beckett –"

"Lawrence."

Snape blinked. "What?"

"Please, call me Lawrence," said the pastor. "I think that, since you allow me to call you 'Severus,' I might return the courtesy and allow you to call me 'Lawrence.'"

Severus nodded in silent acquiescence, a bit stunned. There were precious few people he was on a first-name basis with; in fact, he could count them on one hand: Albus, Minerva, Poppy Pomfrey, and now, Pas – _Lawrence_ Beckett.

"Splendid!" exclaimed his friend. "Now that we've got that settled, please, talk away. I don't think I need to remind you that I will listen to whatever you have to say, without judging you."

The Potions Master longed to point out that he just did, but for once kept his sarcastic comments to himself and began discussing the issue that brought him into the pastor – _Lawrence's _kitchen.

"You remember the conversation we had yesterday morning, correct?" he asked, swirling the dregs of his tea about in his cup.

"Quite well," replied Lawrence, pouring himself another cup of tea and dunking a shortbread biscuit in it. "What part of it do you wish to discuss?"

Snape frowned at his cup, attempting to gather his thoughts before he spoke, not particularly caring for a repeat performance of yesterday. He was still quite ashamed of shouting at his friend in a fit of emotional upheaval.

"The part when we discussed my ability to be forgiven for my…transgressions," he finally said.

"Ah," came the unpressing reply. The younger wizard almost wished the other man would push him for details, but on the whole, he felt grateful for Beckett's patience.

He stared at his teacup again, absently noticing something that looked like a crooked cross. From what he could remember of Divination (admittedly, very little), it was the sign for trials and suffering. The Potions Master snorted quietly; that was quite an understatement, if he did say so himself.

But, whatever the contents of his teacup, they were not the topic of discussion, and certainly not anything he wished to discuss anyway.

He took a deep breath and continued. "More specifically, the part in which you told me that if I confessed and truly repented of…my sins, then…God…would forgive me." Mentally he berated himself for being unable to speak without awkward pauses. Never before had he missed his usual eloquence as much as he did now.

"Ah, yes; I do remember that part," said Lawrence, clearly pleased.

"Beyond that, the part in which you said that 'if someone humbles himself before God, prays, reads God's word, and turns from his wicked ways, as well as believing that Jesus is the Christ, then he will be forgiven and saved.'" He paused. "That's what I really want to talk about."

Nervously he swirled the teacup about some more before looking up to gauge the pastor's reaction. To the younger man's great surprise, Lawrence was gazing at him with something akin to admiration.

"You have quite the memory there, Severus," he said with cheerful enthusiasm. "Absolutely amazing."

Snape fought down a blush. "It has saved my life quite a few times," he whispered, not meeting his friend's eyes. He looked down into the teacup instead, intrigued by the new symbol in the bottom. A sun. Hmm…that meant 'great happiness' if he recalled correctly. The dark-haired wizard frowned at that. Combining his previous cup and this one, apparently his future included suffering, but being happy whilst doing so.

He snorted derisively at that.

Across from him, Lawrence cleared his throat. "You've seemed quite fascinated by your teacup for the past few minutes," he said, voice tinged with amusement. "Care to share what you've found out about your future?"

Snape looked up, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. Beckett's expression was quite similar. Apparently, the pastor held as much stock in Divination as Snape himself did, and that was not much at all.

It was nice to have a kindred spirit.

"Only that I am apparently going to suffer, but be quite happy about it," he drawled, setting his teacup down on the table and rolling his eyes at it.

Lawrence chuckled at that. "Perhaps your Inner Eye needs a check-up," he said. Then, his expression suddenly became pensive. "Actually, you know, it does sound a bit like a Christian's life: suffering on Earth for one's beliefs, but being happy, for the reward in Heaven far exceeds any affliction possible."

"Oh?" said Snape, feeling rather out of his depth at the sudden philosophical turn of the conversation, but intrigued nonetheless.

Beckett nodded, a far-away look in his eyes. Severus, mindful of the pastor's earlier respect of the Potions Master's own thoughts, let him wander off in his contemplations. He quietly took a shortbread biscuit from the tin and poured himself another cup of mint tea, casting a heating charm when he found the liquid lukewarm.

The use of magic seemed to jolt Lawrence from his thoughts. He started, then gave Severus an apologetic grin. "Sorry about that," he said, running a hand sheepishly through his hair.

Severus merely lifted an eyebrow and took a sip of tea.

The pastor fidgeted in his seat for a few moments, then, giving Severus another embarrassed smile, struck up their previous conversation. "Ahem. Yes. So…what specifically did you wish to talk about in accordance to that verse?"

Before answering, Severus took another sip of his tea. He revelled in the slightly sweet warmth as it flowed down his throat. He sighed, reluctantly put the tea back on the table, and looked his companion in the eye.

"I remember you speaking of how God will reveal to us things in our lives that threaten to destroy us. Needless to say, many things came to my mind. It reminded me of your comments yesterday, saying that confessing those things is the first step in being forgiven for them," he said, voice calm, though his insides were roiling with anxiety. What if…what if Pastor Beckett refused his next request?

He took a deep breath, summoning the courage he had at one time used to answer the Dark Lord's summons, and continued on. "I…I would like to confess those things to you; humble myself, as it were so that I…could turn from them and…be forgiven."

An awkward silence descended upon the kitchen, and for an excruciating moment Severus was sure that Lawrence would refuse and kick him out of the church altogether.

He started when Beckett's hand grasped his own and looked up, shocked, into the solemn face of his friend. Snape had never seen the usually cheerful man so serious before.

"My respect for you has only increased with what you just said, Severus," Lawrence said quietly. Snape blinked, shocked speechless yet again, and was about to protest when the pastor held up his free hand for silence.

"Your willingness to share something so personal with someone you've only just met astounds me," he continued. "There are people in my congregation who I've known for many, many years, and have never come to me with the same request you just did. I am honoured that you feel you can trust me enough to confess your shortcomings. Am I right in assuming that the only other person you've shared these things with is your employer, Albus Dumbledore?"

Snape pulled himself from his astonishment and slowly shook his head. "No," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I've never told anyone, not even Albus, what I'm about to tell you."

Pastor Beckett gave Severus a shocked look that mirrored just how Severus felt. "You mean to tell me – I thought you –"

"I do trust him," interrupted Snape. "I trust him with my life. But, not with this. He knows at least one – my belief that I can never be forgiven for what I did as a Death Eater – but the rest…I just can't."

"I won't say that I understand, because quite frankly, I don't, and never will until you confide in me. I have this to say, though: I hope that one day, you could trust Albus Dumbledore with what you have offered to tell me. I'm sure he would appreciate it," said the pastor with curious certainty.

Snape slowly nodded his head, wondering if perhaps his friend was personally acquainted with Dumbledore. He was about to ask when the pastor continued speaking.

"If you still wish to confide in me, then I make you this promise: nothing you say will leave this room, and I will not judge whatever you say, only help you." It was the same promise Beckett had made the previous day, and only minutes before, but its repetition comforted the younger man.

The feeling that he could trust Pastor Beckett increased manifold as he looked upon his now solemn friend. Surely this must be the man his congregation brought their burdens and sorrows to; the virtuous saint hiding behind a cheerful mask of kindness and humour.

Emboldened but still a little anxious, Severus began to speak. "For as long as I can remember, I have had problems with my anger. I have such a short temper, and it's not all that hard to set me off. I'm ashamed to admit this, but…I usually take out my anger and temper on my students, especially the Gryffindors; and certain Gryffindors in particular." He paused, his eyes leaving Lawrence's fade to focus on the table, too ashamed to look his friend in the eye.

"They hate me," he said in a hoarse whisper, unconsciously wrapping his arms around his waist. "I told myself for years that I didn't care; but it's just not true. I care too much about what people think of me, and whether or not they like me. I know it's my fault they hate me; I'm…I'm horrible to them; and not just them. Practically everyone. I hate myself for being that way, which makes me vile to others, and then they hate me because I'm so awful…it's just a vicious cycle." He choked back a sob; he couldn't cry. He didn't deserve any sympathy over this; it was all his own fault, in the first place.

"I get so angry with certain people that I end up holding grudges against them," he added a few moments later. He gave a self-deprecating laugh that turned into a sob. "I've hated…certain people…since I was eleven years old. They were awful to me in school, but whenever I fought back against them, I got in trouble, and they never did. One of them even tried to kill me in my sixth year. He knew I was curious about where one of his friends disappeared off to every month, and told me where I could find him. I found him. He turned out to be a werewolf, and he almost killed me before another of Black's – the boy who set me up – friends pulled me out."

Severus took a few deep breaths, trying to tamp down the fear and hurt the memory brought. He didn't know what Beckett thought of his story; his eyes were firmly trained on his lap now, and he had no intention of looking up.

"Black wasn't expelled," he continued, hot tears of hatred threatening to spill down his cheeks. "He tried to kill me, and he wasn't expelled! He barely got a punishment – 20 points from Gryffindor – and I was forced to keep his friend's secret, since no one else knew he was a werewolf. I felt betrayed that night; it's the main reason why I can't talk to Dumbledore about certain things. Ever since then, I just let my hatred grow so deep it became a part of me. And now, Black and Lupin – the werewolf – are teaching at Hogwarts." Snape sighed, drained from the painful confession. "I think I've managed to accept that Lupin wasn't in on the 'prank' that nearly claimed my life, but I just can't forgive him. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

With that, he propped his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands, finally allowing the hot tears of shame and disgrace to fall silently.

Beckett gave him all the time he needed to recover, a fact for which he was eternally grateful. Five minutes later all his tears had dissolved and he sat up, still snuffling a bit and red around his eyes. A white handkerchief suddenly appeared under his nose, and he looked up, surprised, into his friend's warmly accepting face.

Snape managed a watery 'thank you' before he took the handkerchief and blew his nose. That done, he tried to meet Beckett's eyes, but unable to do that settled on the man's chin instead.

"I'm sorry," Severus said quietly. "I'm afraid I got a bit carried away."

"It's alright," said Lawrence kindly, waiting for the Potions Master to regain his composure. He reheated Severus's cold tea and nudged the tin of shortbread biscuits towards him. Snape thanked him softly and took a large sip of tea, hoping it would calm him down. The warmth of the teacup on his hands felt wonderful, and the enticing mint vapour rising from the surface soothed his shattered emotions.

"It seems that the root of all your problems is a deep-seated anger," said Beckett gently a few moments later.

Severus, too drained to argue, merely nodded. "I'm a lost cause, aren't I?" he asked, attempting a bit of humour to relieve the rather depressed atmosphere.

"Well, not entirely," said Beckett with a small smile. "I do believe that I can help you, but the real work will be all up to you."

Snape nodded mutely, allowing a little spike of hope to rise in his heart. "Anything to get rid of this anger I'm perpetually feeling."

"Well, first off, anger isn't in itself a bad thing," said Lawrence. "In Ephesians – one of the books in the Bible –" he added, at Snape's blank expression – "it states that anger is a very legitimate emotion. It is only when anger grows into resentment and hostility that it is a problem."

Snape snorted half-heartedly. What good did knowing that do him, when his anger had already progressed to those levels? He voiced this to the pastor.

"The trick is learning how to express your anger and deal with it the right way," Lawrence replied. "First, do not act on your anger in a destructive way, and second, deal with it quickly. 'Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry,' it says in the Bible. Be reconciled if possible, and apologise if necessary."

The Potions Master raised his eyebrow at that. "Apologise."

Pastor Beckett nodded. "Yes, apologise."

Snape felt his lip curling up into his patented sneer. "Apologise. To the person who very nearly killed me. I am not in the wrong! _He_ should apologise to _me_!" He very nearly snarled the last bit and instantly felt guilty.

"I was thinking more along the lines of apologising to the students," said Lawrence mildly.

Severus sighed. "You are right; I…apologise." The words felt strange on his tongue. He might say he was sorry over and over again in a fit of emotion, but rarely had he said it in his usually calm state of mind. There were few who could claim the honour of having had Severus Snape apologise to them, and Dumbledore claimed most of it.

"You know, perhaps we should continue this conversation at a later time," suggested his companion.

Snape nodded. "I would like that," he said quietly. "I don't think I'm in the right state of mind to discuss anything objectively at the moment."

"Whenever I feel that same way, I usually take a walk to clear my mind and sort out my thoughts. It usually helps quite a lot, you know."

The younger wizard considered this. He himself enjoyed walking to sort out his thoughts; it was the main reason he stalked about at night at Hogwarts, insomnia and the bonus of catching students out of bed notwithstanding.

"I think I shall take you up on the offer," he said after a moment. "At the very least, I could certainly use some fresh air."

"Splendid!" exclaimed Beckett, giving Severus a genial smile. Snape briefly wondered what was so 'splendid' about going on a walk, but decided not to analyse the indefatigably cheerful mind of the pastor. It would undoubtedly leave the logical Potions Master quite confused.

"Is there any place you specifically recommend?" he asked instead as he drained the rest of his tea and rose to place it in the sink. Lawrence nimbly rose from his chair and snatched it from Snape's hand before he took two steps.

Snape raised a delicate eyebrow as the pastor washed out the cup and turned 'round, a triumphant smile on his face.

"Guests never do work in _my_ kitchen," he said rather proudly. "And to answer your question, no, there's really no specific place I recommend. Kilterbury is quite the boring little town, you know; although the view of the sunset at the edge of town is quite spectacular. But I don't think you'll be out that long, seeing as how it's only half past one at the moment." He gave Snape a huge grin and popped another shortbread biscuit into his mouth.

Snape, positive that his friend had ingested one too many biscuits, merely gave a small nod and quickly retreated from the kitchen.

Perhaps, if he stayed out long enough, Beckett would be over his sugar high and would be perfectly sane when Snape returned.

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A/N: I had a really hard time writing this chapter. I know I said no more long speeches, but…I'm a sucker for long, deep discussions between characters. I'm trying to make this story as character-driven as possible, so maybe it's not as action-packed as some out there, but then again, this isn't really an action story, is it? Although I do promise some action in later chapters, for now, the focus is on Snape coming to know more about and eventually accepting Christ.

Thanks for all those who read and review to let me know what you think, and to the readers who don't review as well. I'm grateful to you all for reading my humble little fic. : )

Cheers,

Ballad


	5. Chapter 5: Bitter Storm

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad  
Genre: Drama/Spiritual  
Pairings: None so far  
Timeline: AU fifth year, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin  
Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )

A/N: Again, give a round of applause to Ominous Voices, Ye Beta Extraordinaire! (claps enthusiastically). A little case of writer's block snuck up on me, so this chapter's out a bit later than usual, but I hope people are still reading… : )

For some reason, isn't allowing me to reply to individual reviews. Apparently, I am not the author of this story. / So, I'd like to take this moment to thank everyone for their support, and honest comments. I sincerely apologise if the story is boring or repetitive; I was trying to use their kitchen conversations symbolically, sort of like the way Fitzgerald used Gatsby's parties to further the plot in "The Great Gatsby." Obviously, I have much to learn in the ways of using things symbolically and making it interesting at the same time… : ) Thanks for bearing with! And now, on to chapter five!

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Chapter Five: A Bitter Storm

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Severus made his way to the front doors of the church, fully intending to make most of the suggested walk. As well as sort out his riled up thoughts, he decided to look around the town he would be staying in for a while. He admittedly hadn't seen much the night he stumbled into Kilterbury Friday night, wet, bloody, and fleeing for his life.

Now that there weren't any homicidal psychopaths after him, he could afford to do a little sightseeing.

The wizard stepped outside into the afternoon sun. He stood on the steps, just letting his gaze wander over anything and everything. As it turned out, the church did have a graveyard attached to it. Trees shaded the aging stones poking up through lush green grass. A few golden leaves lay about on the lawn; autumn was right around the corner, as a crisp breeze confirmed seconds later. Snape shivered a bit, absently pulling his robes tighter around his thin body.

He would definitely make it a priority not to stay out too long.

Taking a deep breath of cool air, he stepped off into the street, ready to wander aimlessly until his thoughts had sorted themselves into an orderly manner. A few of the townsfolk seemed to have the same idea. Many cordially greeted him as they passed by on whatever errand they had to do, waving hands and giving smiles freely as if they'd known him all their lives. Snape returned the pleasantries with a polite nod. Frankly he wanted nothing to do with anyone at the moment. He wanted peace, quiet, and some time alone.

_It seems that the root of all your problems is a deep-seated anger,_ Pastor Beckett's words echoed in his head._ The trick is learning how to express your anger and deal with it the right way_. The Potions Master sighed as he ambled slowly down the dirt road. For years his anger had been the only constant in his turbulent life. The sun would always rise, the sun would always set; and Snape would always be an angry, sarcastic git. It was the accepted way of things, and he was loath to change it.

But the simple fact that it _needed_ to be changed remained.

As did the fact that he didn't even know _how_ to change.

_Ah, but that's a lie_, said a pesky inner voice. _Lawrence told you how to deal with your anger and change the way you act because of it. 1. Don't act on it in a destructive way. 2. Deal with it quickly. 3. Be reconciled if possible. 4. Apologise if necessary._

Severus sighed again. Pastor Beckett's Four-Step Guide to Simple Anger Management was all well and good, but for a man who had acted contrary to its teachings for so long, it was not easy to implement. Sarcastic, vitriolic comments seemed naturally poised on the tip of his tongue.

He continued on, so caught up in his inner musings that he very nearly ran over a plump woman with her two small children. "Watch where you're going," he snapped absently. The woman sniffed indignantly, favouring him with a glare before gathering her children and striding huffily down the street.

Dirty looks from others being the norm, Severus took five paces down the street before he realised exactly what he had done. "Oh, Merlin," he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. "I truly am a lost cause…" He wished he could take back his hurtful words, or better yet, implement Step Four of the Guide and apologise to the woman.

Gathering his courage and taking a deep, apprehensive breath, the wizard turned around to offer his apologies to the woman he had offended. She was nowhere to be seen. His black eyes scanned the light afternoon crowd, searching in vain for the short, plump figure and her two children. Nothing.

He sighed, turning wearily back around to continue his walk to Merlin-knew-where. How was he supposed to practice dealing with his anger in a constructive manner if the people who made him angry didn't stick around long enough for him to apologise? For all intents and purposes, it was yet another of those vicious cycles that seemed to define his miserable little existence.

_Better controlling your anger isn't going to happen instantly, you know,_ said another inner voice. This one sounded suspiciously like Pastor Beckett. _It will take work, endurance, patience, and most of all, a strong belief that it _can_ be done._

Snape sighed again at that and set off down a random side street. A faded sign proclaimed it 'Park Way.' As he walked, he realised how much he had come to value Lawrence and the man's helpful advice. One of his many inner voices was now a mental copy of the man, for Merlin's sake!

Laughing voices and bright music interrupted his musings as he rounded a corner into a small neighbourhood. The tantalising scent of hot food and good drink wafted heavily on the air, and even though he'd eaten earlier, he found his mouth watering. Curiously he took a few steps in the direction of the smells and sounds until he could make out another faded sign that simply read, 'Pub.'

Through the loud bagpipe and fiddle music he could hear stomping, as if a great many people inside were dancing. Snape swallowed a lump that suddenly formed in his throat. For inexplicable reasons he suddenly wanted to join those people inside; allow their happiness to rejuvenate his weary soul.

But, he couldn't, and he knew it. His presence would merely be a dark cloud in the midst of those bright people, and any fun they were having would surely be over the minute he stepped foot inside. Heaving another deep sigh – he absently noted he'd been doing that a lot as of late – Severus forced his feet to move on past the joyful place. He gave it a final, longing glance before moving on slowly down the street.

He ambled along for a while, not really paying attention to where he was going. As his feet wandered aimlessly down the road, his mind wandered aimlessly around the point in his conversation with Lawrence that had driven Snape outside in the first place.

The Shrieking Shack Incident. Forgiving the man who very nearly killed him.

Snape snorted at that and violently kicked a stone out of his path. Letting go of _that_ anger would kill him, he was sure of it. It had sustained him for so long. Black didn't deserve forgiveness, anyway. It wasn't as if the incident affected him; to the Animagus it was a prank (or in Snape's opinion, a murder plot) gone wrong, and as such ought to be forgotten.

The Potions Master growled at that thought. _He_ could never forget it. Black wasn't the one nearly killed by a werewolf surprised by and not at all delighted at the sudden appearance of company in its lair.

No; he could never forget, and would never forgive. Even if it killed him.

_But it _is_ killing you_, said the Pastor Beckett-voice. _It's eating you up slowly from the depths of your soul._

Suddenly very uncomfortable, Snape scuffed his shoes in the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust to distract himself from his traitorous thoughts.

_You've given Black and what he did to you so much power over you, _the voice continued. _You've allowed one single incident to embitter you and control you to the point where you wouldn't even know how to act if you put the incident behind you. You're afraid. You're afraid of what it would mean to let go, because letting go means redefining yourself._

"Shut up!" Snape hissed, earning a few strange looks from passer-by. He studiously ignored them. Spotting a bench, he hurried over to it and plunked himself down, irritably massaging his temples as if the action could rid him of the voice's truth.

He sighed and rubbed at his eyes until his vision was spotted with little flashes of colour. "Why does life have to be so damn difficult?" he groused, leaning back and gazing up at the deep grey sky. Hmm. Looked like another storm was coming.

As if to accentuate his thought, a chilling breeze cut through the air and rustled the leaves on the nearby trees. Snape shivered, pulling his robes a little tighter around his body and wishing he hadn't left without his cloak.

"That's what I would like to know, laddy," said a hoarse voice to his right.

Snape practically flew off the bench, drawing his wand and turning to face his unexpected companion in one smooth motion. He froze in surprise at what he saw.

A little old man sat on the other side of the bench, wrinkled tan face covered in scraggly grey whiskers. Slightly rheumy blue eyes didn't look the least bit alarmed at the behaviour of his bench mate. In fact, he seemed rather amused. His mouth lifted in a crooked, gapped smile and arthritic hands tightened around the waking stick they held between the old man's knees.

"No need to be so skittish, laddy," he croaked. "I cannae hurt a young thing like yerself; ye'd be gone 'fore I ever lifted meself off o' this bench." One hand moved slowly from the walking stick and patted the bench a few times. "Sit down, laddy, and keep an' ol' man company fer a while. And fer the love of Merlin, put yer wand away."

Snape, still a bit shocked, did as he was told and slowly sat on the edge of the bench farthest away from the old man. The die-hard spy in him refused to take the situation for granted and underestimate the old codger. His companion chuckled and scooted his aged body down toward Snape, who had nowhere to go except off the bench if he wanted to escape.

Narrowed black eyes watched warily as his elderly companion continued to move closer to him. Quite frankly, he wouldn't put it past any of the Death Eaters to disguise themselves in such a manner. He was positive that Voldemort still had them out and about, looking to capture him and bring him back to be punished by their master.

Long pale fingers brushed against the wand in his pocket in case of need. The old man finally stopped moving down the bench, stopping an arm's length away. Arthritic hands rearranged themselves on the walking stick, and he leaned back against the bench, closing his eyes with a satisfied grunt.

Snape relaxed a tiny bit when it seemed as though his companion wasn't going to suddenly attack him. Slowly he released his wand, but didn't withdraw his hand from the pocket containing it. He kept watchful eyes on his companion, ready to hex him if he made any sudden, hostile moves. Paranoia had saved him many a time in the past; a little vigilance never hurt, either.

Unbidden, an image of Mad-Eye Moody popped into his head, his scarred face sneering and his magical eye whizzing about dizzyingly in his head.

Snape groaned. Just the person he _didn't_ want to think about. That was a whole different set of anger issues Lawrence would be ecstatic dive into and dissect. Not that Severus would ever let him, though.

Snape scowled at the thought.

"Alright, laddy; what be botherin' ye?"

Snape jumped, but managed to turn it into a shrug before all dignity was lost. "Nothing that you need concern yourself with," he replied politely.

The grizzled old face contorted into a smile. "There's no need tae be lyin' tae me, laddy," chided the hoarse voice. "I can tell when a man is frustrated with his life."

Snape blinked in surprise at that. Was he really that obvious? _You really need to polish up your spying skills_, said another pesky inner voice. He mentally shoved it aside.

"Oh?" he said, voice neutral but showing a bit of interest. The old man nodded sagely.

"Ye see, I am one meself."

Snape snorted. Was there something in the water that made people want to share their innermost secret pains with complete strangers? He himself had fallen victim to that tendency since arriving in Kilterbury.

"I can assure you, my problems are no concern of yours," he said stiffly.

The much older wizard shrugged. "If ye donnae wan' to talk, then don't," he replied. "But ye'll be listenin' to me own problems instead," he added with a jovial wink.

_Another indefatigably happy person_, thought Snape acerbically. He was about to tell the man exactly where he could put his problems when an image of a very disappointed Pastor Beckett popped into his head. He frowned. _Speaking of indefatigably happy people…ye gods._ Snape sighed to himself and counted to ten – in Gobbledegook – until he felt calm enough to make a polite rejoinder.

"I don't think I'm the best person for the job, actually," he said through clenched teeth. Ah, well; little steps always worked best.

The old man looked slightly affronted but Severus didn't give him time to interrupt. "In point of fact, there's a little church slightly up the road, nicely equipped with a pastor to –"

"Don't even _start_ with me abou' _him_!" snapped the old man, eyes flashing dangerously. His hands clenching the walking stick as though they wanted to strangle someone.

Snape obligingly shut his mouth, too surprised to say much of anything anyway. It seemed he had grossly underestimated his bench mate. He just hoped the old man wouldn't give himself a heart attack with his vehement displays.

"That bloody Pastor Beckett and his bloody God!" raged his companion, his language waxing harsh and vulgar. "That's all the bloody man _ever_ talks about!"

"Well, he _is_ a pastor," said Snape.

"I donnae give a soddin' damn _what_ he is!" snarled the old wizard, baring his teeth and giving Snape a glare that could rival his own. "I still hate him!"

Snape quirked a slender black eyebrow. "Why?" he asked curiously, absently aware that he was now listening to the man's problems in spite of his previous attempt to get out of doing just that.

In answer the old man pounded his walking stick into the ground with a ferocious snarl. Snape tightened his grip around his wand just in case the other became violent towards his person.

"He's always goin' on abou' how 'God loves you' and 'God is love'!" he snapped a few moments later, pinning Snape to the bench with his sharp blue gaze. "Let me ask ye this, laddy: if God loves me, why did he take away me family, eh! If he _loves _me, why did he allow those bloody Death Eater bastards to _kill me wife and son_!"

The old man's roar startled birds from the ground around them, sending them into panicked flight. Instinctively Snape lifted an arm to protect his face as they flew by and over him, squawking and whipping his hair about in the wind from their wings.

The air was eerily still as soon as the last bird disappeared, and all was silent except for the harsh breathing of his companion. Snape licked his dry lips, quite a bit unsettled by the angry outburst from such a gentle, harmless-looking person. The undertones of great bitterness and self-loathing in the man's words shocked him even more.

The tone sounded all too much like his own.

He swallowed, needing to say something to dispel the harsh, still silence that had settled heavily in the park and especially over their bench. "It…it is hardly Pastor Beckett's fault that Death Eaters murdered your family," he very nearly whispered. _In fact, it would be more accurate to accuse the very person sitting next to you_.

This did not have the desired effect. "What?" hissed the old man, leaning forward to invade Snape's personal space with a vengeful glower.

"You heard what I said," said Snape, voice calm and steady once again.

It happened so quickly that Snape couldn't have defended himself had he been expecting the attack.

One moment the man's snarling visage was only inches from his own. The next found him on the ground, the air knocked out of his body and his left arm throbbing painfully from where he had landed on it. Snape gasped, sucking in air and massaging his right cheek where the old man had struck him with his gnarled walking stick. His fingers came away sticky with blood.

The old man glared down at him from above, chest heaving angrily and stick nearly vibrating in his twitching fingers. "There is no such thing as God," he said angrily, "and even if there is, he's certainly not a god o' love! If he was, there wouldnae even _be_ murdering Death Eater bastards walkin' the earth, killin' innocents and gettin' away with it! There would be peace! Harmony! And me family wouldnae be _dead_!"

He choked at this last bit, running a shaking hand over his eyes. Even after being knocked painfully onto the ground by the man, Snape found himself feeling rather sorry for him.

The moment of vulnerability passed and the elderly wizard was once again angry and bitter. "Ye'd do well tae remember that yerself, laddy," he said, slightly less vicious than before. He gave Snape a glare as if the Potions Master was the source of his problems before hobbling away, leaving Snape looking after him incredulously.

The wizard shook his head in amazement before gingerly picking himself up off the ground. A pale hand raked over his black robes, sending a cloud of dust into the quickly cooling air. He sneezed a few times before sitting back down on the bench. "What the devil was that for?" Snape muttered to himself, absently massaging his left arm. It still ached from where he had landed on it.

The cut on the side of his face twinged as the first icy drops fell from the sky. Snape shivered, swiping the viscous blood away with the back of his sleeve. He'd take care of it once he got back to the church.

"I wonder of Lawrence knows he has quite a vicious enemy in town," he thought to himself wryly. The old man was certainly a puzzle. One minute calm and sociable; the next, violent and angry. Snape couldn't really blame the old man for his anger over the death of his family. But, in all fairness, the codger didn't have to take that anger out on innocent bench mates, either. Lightning suddenly lit up the sky and thunder boomed almost immediately afterward. Not really wanting to be caught in another storm, Snape shoved off the bench and hurried back into town.

_The old man does have a point, though_, he thought as he walked briskly past low-roofed houses. _If God truly is a God of love, then why _is_ there so much evil in the world?_ Lawrence would surely know. Snape could almost imagine the pastor's delight at having such a deep, theological question posed to him.

He would certainly be more delighted than Snape felt at the moment. The clouds above had apparently decided that the rain currently falling wasn't quite enough, and thus had upped the downpour level. Severus groaned as the once-dirt road transformed into a river of mud. His boots stuck in the mess, making walking a superhuman effort as he squelched slowly down the road. A quickly performed umbrella charm kept his robes from the worst of the rain, but didn't protect them from the stinky brown mess around him.

Lightning flashed again, making him freeze as a realisation hit him as sharply as the pelting rain. He didn't recognise where he was.

"Well isn't this just fan-_bloody_-tastic!" he growled; or, at least he thought he did, since a loud clap of thunder chose that moment to deafen him for a second or two.

If there was anything worse than being caught in a storm, it was being _lost_ whilst caught _in_ said storm.

He muttered obscenities beneath his breath, not really caring what Pastor Beckett would say to him if he had been there to hear. Digging into is pocket he took out his wand, casting a quick _Lumos_ and looking for the nearest occupied building. Snape, like any dignified person, absolutely _hated_ asking for directions; but in this scenario, it was absolutely necessary.

A house to his left had a few lights shining through the window, though the natural darkness of the storm made them nearly impossible to see. Snape marched his way over, painstakingly ungluing his feet from the mud one step at a time until he was at the threshold. He reached up and knocked on the door a few times, his hand so numb from the cold he couldn't even feel the wood beneath his skin.

"Answer the door, please answer the door," he repeated to himself over and over again, teeth chattering in the cold breeze that now blew the rain nearly horizontally. Maintaining the umbrella shield was becoming a gargantuan effort. He felt his control over it trickling away like water through cupped hands. Suddenly it disappeared, leaving him gasping as the cold rain soaked his robes and knifed against his body.

Abruptly the door to the house swung open. Snape blinked in the sudden deluge of light.

Of _course_ the owner of the house would choose _now_ to open the bloody door! Why couldn't they have –?

He stopped mid-thought as the plump face glaring out at him became sickeningly familiar.

It was the woman he had been very rude to earlier in the day.

At that moment, Snape was certain that Life hated him.

"G-good evening, madam," he managed to get out through chattering teeth. She didn't say anything, her expression angry and petulant. A chubby foot tapped impatiently against the stone step. Fleetingly Snape wondered why she just didn't slam the door in his face. From her perspective (and, it to admit it, his own), he deserved nothing less. But, she didn't. She just stood their, glaring and tapping her foot.

Snape grimaced, realising that perhaps this was the best time to apologise for his earlier rudeness. If he did it right, she might even forgive him and give him directions back to the church.

Armed with a suitable reason to apologise (aside from his guilty conscience), he cleared his throat and looked at a spot over her shoulder. "Madam, I would…like to apologise for my earlier behaviour, he said. "I was distracted, but that really isn't a good reason for my discourtesy."

He swallowed, waiting for her to screech in self-righteous indignation and toss him out into the street on his arse.

Instead, the woman raised her eyebrows is surprise. She stepped out more from behind the door, placing meaty hands on generous hips and giving him a quick once-over. Snape knew he must look and smell awful; covered in mud and soaking wet like a drowned street urchin. He fidgeted a bit, inexplicably feeling as if he was a student being punished by the Headmaster for some offence or another.

"Well, I thank you for your apology, sir," the woman finally said in a pleasant voice, "but I'm certain that's not what you came here for."

A wave of relief washed over Snape. She had accepted his apology! He felt absurdly happy at that thought. Maybe this apologising business wasn't as hard as he had originally thought.

_Or maybe she's just naturally kind-hearted, or just feels sorry for you, or even just wants you to go away,_ said a little pessimistic voice in the back of his head. He shoved the thought away, revelling in his slightly smug happiness.

"N-no indeed, madam," Snape chattered, shivering a bit as a new gust of wind slammed into his soaking wet body. He vaguely felt like an idiot for stuttering, but didn't dwell on the issue. All he wanted was directions to the church, and if he had to stutter like a fool to get them, then damn it he would! "I am merely in n-need for directions to the ch-church."

The woman's gaze waxed thoughtful. "Hmm…let me think about it. Won't you come in for a bit? You look like you're freezing to death out there!"

The plump expression of concern surprised Snape, who rather thought she'd just give him the directions and wish him good evening. "I…hate to intrude," he said hesitantly.

She waved her hand dismissively and pulled him inside, slamming the door behind him. "Nonsense," she sniffed as he stood dripping by the door. "I'll not be having anyone freeze himself to death while standing on _my_ doorstep."

Snape, far too chilled to answer properly, nodded his head in thanks. She reminded him of Molly Weasley, even though she looked nothing like the red-head. Perched on a bun of greying brown hair sat a white bonnet decorated with faded blue daisies. A matching apron hung about the woman's waist; nothing the Weasley matriarch would ever wear.

"Here." He jerked himself out of his ponderings as a hot cup of tea made its way into his hands. "That should help fight the chill," she said.

"Thank you…" said Snape, taking a sip. Herbal tea, with just a hint of sweet honey. He sighed, infinitely thankful for the warm porcelain cup thawing his hands and the hot liquid defrosting his insides.

"You're welcome," she said.

Snape sipped at the tea, careful not to lean up against anything and get it wet. After the icy chill of the storm, the warm beverage served in an equally warm house seemed like heaven. He was nearing the dregs when a peculiar sensation washed over him, and he looked up in time to see the woman tuck her wand into a pocket in her apron.

Mildly alarmed, he looked down at himself to see if she had hexed him only to find his clothing completely dry.

Feeling a bit sheepish for jumping to conclusions, he looked back at his hostess and quietly thanked her. "It was a kind gesture, but I'm afraid I'll just get soaked again," he said, finishing the last of his tea and feeling quite rejuvenated.

The woman gave him a little smile. "Now that you're warmed up, I think you'll be able to sustain an umbrella shield," she said.

"Ah, yes; quite."

She smiled again, then took his teacup once he finished with it and disappeared around a corner. A few moments later she came back, drying her large hands on a periwinkle-blue towel.

"Now, to get from the church, turn right once you leave my house until you see a street. It's not very far, but you might miss it; it's rather narrow. Just follow that street straight on toward the church, and you should get there in about five minute's time," she said.

Snape nodded, committing the directions to memory. It didn't seem all that difficult: find the street and follow it, never making a turn to the right or left. "Thank you for the directions and your hospitality, madam," he said, giving her a slight bow.

She looked a bit flustered and quite flattered at his gesture. "Well, you're most certain welcome," she said with a blush. "Take care you don't freeze to death out there, and tell Pastor Beckett 'hello' for me, please?"

Snape nodded again. "Certainly, madam," he replied. He gave her another bow, just to see her blush and fidget, and allowed his lips to curve upward in semblance of a smile. "Good evening."

"Good evening," she called after him as he opened the door and stepped back into the storm. Luckily for the Potions Master, the rain seemed to have faded to a light drizzle, and the wind had died down altogether. His hostess gave him once last smile before she closed the door. He allowed his lips to twist into a full-blown smirk (the closest he ever got to a smile), and, seeing no real need for an umbrella shield, set off into the darkened streets.

One step into the muddy street disabused him of any sense of luckiness.

"Oh bloody hell," he groused, resigning himself to a very slow, very muddy trip back to the church.

It turned better than he had anticipated. While halfway down the street he had to nearly pull his feet out of the mud with his hands, the second half was lightly paved. The mud was less sticky and deep, and the surrounding houses kept most of the drizzle off of his head and clothing.

True to her word, the entire trip took little over five minutes. Severus Snape, Potions Master and all-around nastiest teacher at Hogwarts, had never been happier to see anything than he was to see the church.

Wringing out what little water had dampened his clothing and hair, Snape performed a quick cleaning charm on his boots before opening the door and stepping inside. Candles floating about the room gave the main sanctuary a soft glow, but other than that, the place seemed dark and empty. Snape's heels clicked across the stone floor, disturbing the reverent silence of the place.

He was just about to call out Lawrence's name when voices floated to his ears. They sounded as if they came from the pastor's study. Curious, Snape clicked his way over to investigate, drawing his wand just in case.

He knocked on the wall to let Lawrence know someone was there before stepping into the candle-lit glow of the study. "I'm back, Lawrence, just thought I'd –"

His voice died in his throat at the scene before him.

There, sitting in an armchair across from Pastor Beckett, drinking tea as if he belonged there, was Lucius Malfoy.

------

A/N: Ooooh, cliff hanger! I don't think I've done that to you guys yet, have I? Well, it's about time I spiced things up a bit. : )

But wait! Didn't Pastor Beckett say that Death Eaters couldn't get into the church? Was he wrong! Did he lie! Oh no! Tune in for the next chapter of Trading My Sorrows to find out!

…

Now that I got that out of my system…this might be the last chapter for a few weeks. College has started, and I'm taking Sadistics 101 – I mean, Statistics 101. (Crickets chirp at joke). I hate math. And I now have to devote five hours of every Tuesday and Thursday to it. That's awful! And I don't even want to think of the homework. Blegh. Besides math, I have an art class, two Psychology classes (letting me see if I want to keep my major in Psychology or switch to something else), as well as a class studying the book "Nickel and Dimed." So, I'm going to be a very busy 18-year-old these next few days. Please pray for me, and bear with my slow updating. : D

Cheers,

Ballad


	6. Chapter 6: Friend or Foe?

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad

Genre: Drama/Spiritual  
Pairings: None so far  
Timeline: AU fifth year, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin  
Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )

A/N: One word: college. I'm so sorry this is out so late, but it seems like the only time I'll have to work on it is during the weekend. Blah. Thanks for waiting so long! I refuse to write faster and thus put out sub-par chapters, so…it will take a few weeks for each chapter, rest assured. Thanks once again to Ominous Voices, my beta. She is wonderful and very supportive. : )

And thanks to you, my readers and reviewers. I can tell now that any review, no matter how short, will make my day when I'm bogged down in a maths assignment or doing a psychology paper. Please feed the starving college student's ego: D

* * *

Chapter 6: Friend or Foe?

_There, sitting in an armchair across from Pastor Beckett, drinking tea as if he belonged there, was Lucius Malfoy._

Snape knew he was gaping like a fish, but couldn't bring himself to care. He stood frozen to the floor, too shocked to even lift his wand and stun Malfoy.

The scene might have gone on forever – one man standing in the doorway watching two others sitting and drinking tea – had Pastor Beckett not stood up, a welcoming smile gracing his features.

"Severus!" he exclaimed. "What a pleasant surprise! I didn't think you'd be back any time soon, you know, what with the storm and all. Won't you join us?" He waved his wand, conjuring a comfortable-looking beige chair next to Malfoy's own seat.

Snape nodded slowly, not trusting his voice at the moment. _Is Lawrence a Death Eater too?_ he wondered, eyes never leaving Malfoy's relaxed figure. Lucius regarded him with cool detachment, primly taking a sip of tea as Severus sat down on the edge of his chair and automatically accepted a cup of tea from Law – no, Pastor Beckett. Until he got to the bottom of the situation, he couldn't afford familiarity with the room's third occupant, even in his own head. _For all I know, he and Malfoy could be good friends! Many of the Dark Lord's followers never came to gatherings to conceal their identity from everyone else. Could I have been wrong?_

As he sipped his tea he looked at the pastor, slowly moving up from the man's chest to look him directly in the eye. _Legilimens_, he thought.

Suddenly a slew of images passed by his mental eyes. He saw a young boy playing with a dog in a small front yard – the same child sitting on a stool, a large hat on his head – the hat screaming "SLYTHERIN!" – a letter from a prestigious religious school, offering him a chance to attend – graduating from Hogwarts – finishing his training to be accepted into the priesthood – tea with _Albus Dumbledore_?

He let go of the spell just as suddenly as he had begun it. Pastor Beckett flinched slightly, but turned it into a cough and apologised to Malfoy, who had given him a strange glance.

"Storms don't really agree with me, I'm afraid," he said, giving his signature self-deprecating laugh.

Relief nearly overwhelmed Severus; only iron will kept the breath he had been holding behind his teeth. Trust, admiration and complete respect had flooded the last memory he had seen. Pastor – _Lawrence_ – really did know the headmaster after all. It certainly explained a lot of things.

But, most importantly, the man he had come to call 'friend' had no love for Voldemort in his heart.

Silently the Potions Master vowed to apologise later for rifling through Lawrence's head without permission.

Right now, he had a demon to exorcise.

Before he could say anything, Lawrence cleared his throat. Snape looked up from the brownish swirls of his tea, wondering what his friend had on his mind. "Forgive me, Mr. Malfoy; you must think me an incredibly rude host," said the pastor. Malfoy, who had been refilling his teacup, looked up with polite interest. "Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Severus Snape, a close friend of mine."

Elegant eyebrows nearly disappeared into the pale blond hairline. "Indeed," said Lucius in a rich, cultured voice encased with ice. He shifted in his chair, deep black velvet robes following with every movement of his body. Ice blue eyes appraised Severus, who met them with his own impenetrable black stare.

"As it happens, we are already acquainted," said Snape, his voice just as polite and frosty as the Malfoy patriarch's. Though he addressed his comment to Lawrence, his gaze never left Malfoy's for an instant.

Lucius lifted his chin, pointed nose in the air and thin lips twisted into an almost-smirk. "Indeed," he said again. Snape felt his lip curl into an answering sneer. Malfoy had an air about him of an aristocrat politely deigning to address his inferiors.

Severus longed to hex that smirk off the refined face. Perhaps a few pus-filled boils would do the trick…

"Ah…would anyone like more tea?"

"No thank you, Lawrence," said Snape. He lifted his teacup to his lips, quietly sipping the warm drink. Black bored into blue, each daring the other to make the first move. Snape kept his face expressionless; in icy mask of bored indifference. He could wait all day for Malfoy to do something, say anything. Patience had long been the factor that kept him alive.

For the better part of five minutes, a frigid silence descended up on the study. Nothing interrupted it, save for the rustling of robes. Candlelight flickered on stone walls and stony faces. Everyone sat perfectly still, not even daring to breathe loudly lest the spell break and chaos descend upon all.

No one moved – until the serpent struck.

Abruptly Malfoy sat his teacup on the small china plate with a tiny _clink_. He leaned back leisurely in his chair, crossing his legs at the knee and smoothing his ink black robes over his lap. Severus's breath hitched in his throat as the Death Eater's gaze met his own. A vicious smirk laced across the arrogant features, and a malignant spark glittered in his eyes.

"Really Severus," he spoke suddenly, his voice echoing off the stones of the study walls. "It truly is unlike you to be so inconsiderate."

Realising that a proverbial line had been drawn in the sand, Snape slowly lowered his teacup from his lips and returned it to the dish. "I am perfectly sure I have no idea what you mean," he replied, straightening his posture and giving Malfoy his best disdainful glance.

Malfoy's smirk spread across his face. "Oh, but I think you do," he whispered, voice spiked with venom.

Snape lifted an eyebrow. "Explain."

"Oh, but I really don't think I have to." Venom and ice; not a reassuring combination when lacing the voice of Voldemort's favourite servant.

"Ahem…ah…excuse me, but what is going on?" interrupted Pastor Beckett, his own voice tinged with uncertainty and worry.

Both Slytherins ignored the other, their gazes locked and battle lines drawn.

"Really Lucius," said Severus, mocking Malfoy's earlier comment, "it really is unlike you to be so unclear. If you do not explain yourself this instant, I shall have Lawrence toss you out of the church. I have not the time to listen to nonsense."

Malfoy's eyes glittered like a winter's morning. "I believe a…_mutual friend _of ours would disagree," he said.

"Indeed," said Snape, his eyebrow rising even further into his hairline.

The smile Malfoy gave him had nothing to do with friendliness. "Quite," he said. "I do believe he is even _longing_ for your company. It would be exceedingly impolite not to pay him a little visit, don't you think? Why, I could even take you to see him right now, if you wish it."

The blood in Snape's veins turned to ice at this. So, Malfoy had come not to kill, but to capture. Interesting move on the Dark Lord's part, since Snape knew Malfoy was Voldemort's best assassin, not his best kidnapper.

Somehow, the prospect of Malfoy in a job not suited to his usual talents didn't cheer Snape up much. In fact, it frightened him senseless. Long ago had he learned the lesson: when the Dark Lord acted against type, it meant trouble for anyone involved.

"I think not," said Snape. Inside he marvelled at the disdainful calm of his voice. It certainly didn't reflect how he felt. He crossed his arms over his chest, surreptitiously gripping the fabric of his robes harshly in his fingers. It would not do to let Malfoy know he had struck a rather large nerve.

Unfortunately though, Malfoy seemed to sense just that. His ice-blue eyes flickered briefly to Snape's clenched hands, and his smirk deepened. "Oh?" he said, affecting polite surprise. "And why ever not? I seem to remember that you two were so very…_close_ not too long ago. Has something happened between you?"

_Damn you, Malfoy!_ Snape snarled in his mind. He narrowed his eyes and gave Malfoy his patented Death Glare, wishing like hell his looks really could kill like all the students back at Hogwarts thought. Despite his need for icy disdain to keep the battlefield level, he couldn't stop his lip from lifting and baring his slightly yellowed teeth.

"I am sorry to inform you that we have fallen out of acquaintance," he hissed, fingers clenching his arms but longing to wrap themselves around Malfoy's neck. "Our relationship has unfortunately declined to nothing, and to visit would exacerbate already precarious circumstances."

Malfoy's answering sneer only infuriated him more. The bastard seemed to know he had scored a rather large point with the issue, and was loathe to drop it. "That truly is unfortunate," he said, mock sincerity ringing in his voice and grating on Severus's ears. "However, if I might offer my humble opinion –" Snape snorted at that – "I believe that our friend would dearly love to see you again. I daresay he would be so delighted, he would reward you with something absolutely to _die_ for."

Severus reigned in the desire to hex Malfoy and instead offered an icy, faux apologetic smile. "Forgive my impertinence, but it would hardly be fitting for me to accept anything from our mutual friend. It would be…far too painful, and would certainly not end well for me."

Black and blue met again, sizing the other up; attempting to take the measure of the man to whom each gaze belonged. Snape refused to look away, letting all his anger gather and fester and throwing it into a glare that could freeze brimstone. Lucius flinched as though struck, but recovered rapidly and rose gracefully from his chair.

Snape followed quickly, not wanting to give Malfoy any advantage, and certainly not the advantage of height. The blond Death Eater regarded the Potions Master warily before taking a slight step back, his bored, arrogant mask once again in place.

"So, there will be no persuading you, then?" he asked softly; dangerously.

Snape shook his head. "No," he hissed.

Lucius shrugged. "So be it," he said. Suddenly his head snapped in Lawrence's direction. For a moment Severus thought Malfoy meant to curse the pastor. Apparently Lawrence did too; he jerked back in his seat before scrambling out of his chair, slightly breathless and eyes wide.

"Is there anything I could do for you, sir?" asked Beckett.

"Just see me to the door, if you please," said Lucius as if he was addressing a servant. Snape opened his mouth to protest, but Lawrence had already agreed and had made for the door, Malfoy in tow. Growling low in his throat, Snape drew his wand and followed the pair into the main sanctuary.

A candle floating beside Lawrence gave off enough light to see the floor clearly, but not much else. The small amount of heat did nothing to chase away the breath of cold air that assaulted Snape as he walked into the room. He shivered, pulling his robes about him as he continued to tail Lawrence and Malfoy.

"I thank you for your hospitality," said Lucius's rich, aristocratic voice.

"Not a problem, Mr. Malfoy," said Lawrence. The two men shook hands. Malfoy then pulled the door open, threw a final, calculating glance at Severus's hiding place in the shadows, and then disappeared into the burgeoning evening.

Rain had begun falling again, and lightning lit up the sky just as Lucius Malfoy Disapparated. A frosty gust of wind suddenly blew into the church, putting out Lawrence's candle and sending a spike of ice through Severus's body. The pastor shivered too as he closed the door. He gave a sigh, as though vexed in some way, before drawing his wand and relighting the candle.

Severus waited impatiently in the darkness, arms crossed over his chest and a scowl planted on his face. Lawrence turned around to walk back to his study and bumped into Snape. He gave an undignified yelp before backing up and holding the candle aloft.

"Severus? What's –"

Snape grabbed Lawrence's arm and dragged the man back into the study, completely ignoring anything he had to say. He gently but firmly shoved the pastor into Malfoy's vacated chair and pulled his own up close, seating himself and locking gazes with Lawrence.

They stared at each other for a few moments, eerily reminiscent of Snape's earlier glaring contest with Malfoy. When Lawrence furrowed his brows and opened his mouth and asked what was wrong, Snape couldn't take it any more.

He snapped.

"What. The. Bloody. _Hell_. Was that. All. _About_!" he shouted, grabbing Lawrence by the shoulders and shaking the older man. "_Why_ did you let him in here? Didn't you know who that was? He could have killed you in a heartbeat, you fool!"

Suddenly Lawrence did something Severus would never have thought him capable of.

He struck the Potions Master across the face. Hard.

Too shocked for words, Severus released the pastor and jerked back, rubbing his twice-abused cheek. Both men stared at each other, breathing hard, and suddenly realising just how foolish they were acting.

"I'm sorry, but you needed that," said Lawrence apologetically a few moments later. Snape slowly nodded. He would never admit it aloud, but he had definitely overreacted.

"I'm…sorry too," he mumbled, slumping back in his chair and rubbing his temples wearily. He sensed Lawrence moving around, but didn't look up until he heard the sound of a whispered spell and tinkling china.

A teacup floated in front of his nose, filled to the rim with steaming, hot liquid. He took it slowly, his anger flaring up again at the nonchalant gesture. Pastor Beckett didn't seem to notice as he sat himself back into Lucius's chair, adding a liberal amount of sugar and cream to his beverage.

"There," he said, satisfaction colouring his voice. "I always find it best to talk over tea, you know."

"Tea," said Severus.

Lawrence gave him a lost, slightly confused stare. "Yes…"

Severus felt his control waver, then run off with abandon once again. "You're having tea with me, acting as if nothing just happened, when you just finished having tea with _a sodding Death Eater_! What the bloody hell are you_ on_, Lawrence?"

Pastor Beckett blinked a few times, but didn't flinch and didn't answer. Instead he took a calm sip of tea, placed it back on its saucer, and then folded his hands in his lap.

"Believe me, I don't blame you for being so angry," he said in a soothing voice. "But please understand that I knew what I was doing."

Snape opened his mouth to contest that, but Lawrence swiftly held up his hand. "Please, Severus, just calm down and let me explain. _Please_," he added, almost begging, when Snape grunted and slammed his teacup down onto the desk, spilling some of the tea onto the varnished wood.

The pleading look on Pastor Beckett's face stilled any angry words on the tip of his tongue. A vague feeling of shame for erupting at his friend (again…) crept over him. He sighed, letting his anger drain away, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I truly am sorry," he said from around his hand. "I just…felt…so shocked and betrayed when I saw him having tea with you, as if you had known each other for years." He glanced up, knowing what needed to be said next. "I'd also like to apologise for rifling through your thoughts. It was not my right to do so."

"Apology accepted," said the pastor. Then he gave Severus a slight smile. "But, I probably would have done the same thing in your position, you know. Well, if I actually had any skill whatsoever in Legillimency, that is."

Snape smiled a bit at that. "Knowing _how_ to do something certainly is a legitimate prerequisite to actually doing it," he said.

Lawrence's smile deepened at that. "Yes, it certainly is," he said.

After that, a companionable silence descended upon the two men. Lawrence interrupted it to summon up a plate of shortbread biscuits, but after that, only the sound of two people crunching on biscuits and sipping their tea filled the study.

Until Lawrence interrupted it again five minutes later.

"I suppose you've calmed down enough to hear my side of things?" he asked, voice slightly teasing.

Snape just raised one slender eyebrow.

"I'll take that as a yes."

Another silence fell upon them; thoughtful for the pastor, and keenly interested on Severus's part. He watched as Beckett fidgeted in his chair, moving his teacup about in his hands as though searching for the right way to phrase what he wished to say. The younger wizard finished off his tea in one long gulp and sat it down on the desk, leaning back wearily in his chair. Merlin, but he felt so tired!

He felt his eyelids droop as they got heavier and heavier. Absently he wondered if Lawrence hadn't slipped him a sleeping drought but dismissed the thought. He was a Potions Master after all; he'd have tasted anything put in his tea. And he trusted the pastor.

He was just nodding off when suddenly Lawrence spoke. "I knew exactly what he was the minute he walked through the door, you know."

With an incentive to stay awake, Snape valiantly fought off the muzzy sleepiness that threatened to overwhelm him and sat up straight in his chair. "Oh?" he said, stifling a yawn with one long slender hand. "Sorry," he added fuzzily a moment later. "I seem to be falling asleep where I sit. Go on, please."

Lawrence gave him a slightly amused look. "All that walking and thinking catching up to you, eh?" He gave a light chuckle. "Anyway, like I said, the moment he walked in I somehow _knew_ that he was a Death Eater. Perhaps the wards of holy magic alerted me, but –"

"Holy magic?" Severus interrupted, suddenly very much awake. "You can perform holy magic? It's the rarest, hardest magic to perform! How – "

Pastor Beckett lifted his hand in a stifling gesture. "Later, Severus. I have plenty of books on the subject you can borrow, but for now, I'd like to tell you what happened." Suddenly he lifted his eyebrow in a nearly exact imitation of the Potions Master. "Unless you're not interested in what I have to say?"

Severus nodded impatiently, still a bit agitated about the mention of holy magic. "Of course I'm interested," he said a bit snappishly.

Lawrence gave him look, then apparently decided that he had enough of Snape's attention to continue. "As I was saying, for some reason I knew Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater the moment he walked inside. He invited himself into my study while I was working on next week's sermon, knocked on the wall with that ridiculous staff of his, and announced that he was here to see you."

Severus blinked at this. "Me? But how did…? Oh. Those Death Eaters that chased me here must have told him." He scowled darkly at the floor. "Stupid bastards."

The second the words left his mouth, he was sure that Lawrence would reprimand him for swearing in a church. The pastor, however, merely nodded and took a sip of his tea. "Yes, well, I suppose that's what evil servants of darkness do, you know."

Severus quirked his eyebrow at the lack of chastisement. Lawrence noticed, and gave Severus a disturbing little smirk that didn't fit with the pastor's usually kind face. "I may be the bloody pastor of a bloody church, but I swear too, you know."

Snape groaned and hit his forehead in exasperation. "Not that again. You'll never let me forget I said that, will you?"

Lawrence grinned. "Never."

Snape made a disparaging noise in his throat. "Get on with your story," he groaned.

The pastor gave him one last amused look before heading back into his account. "Yes…so, he walked in and asked for you. His appearance surprised me; I'd never seen anyone dress so flamboyantly. I couldn't even afford one silver button on his black velvet robes. I was almost hoping he'd say he came to join you in your quest for salvation. That way he'd become a Christian and then give us all sorts of money for his tithe offering –"

"Law-rence…" said Snape warningly.

"It was a joke!" he exclaimed. Then he cocked his head to the side, a thoughtful expression on his face. "But we could use the money, you –"

"LAWRENCE!"

"Alright, alright! I was just trying to put you in a good mood again; you seem rather agitated, you know."

Snape massaged his temples. "Dancing around the subject isn't making me feel any better."

"Sorry…" said Lawrence with something of a pout. Snape thought it rather undignified for a man the pastor's age to pout like a sullen child, but didn't point this out as they'd get even more off topic.

"When he asked for you, I was naturally very suspicious of his intentions. I told him you weren't here at the moment – which was true, seeing as how you were out on your walk – and politely told him to come back later."

"Apparently he didn't listen to your suggestion."

"No," said Lawrence, a sour look on his face, "he didn't. I don't like being interrupted when working on my sermons, you know. It's hard enough as is to come up with something that won't bore my congregation. It's even more difficult to come up with something spiritually uplifting when a very rich and intrusive Death Eater is sitting in my study."

Snape felt his lips curve into an amused smirk. "I suppose it would be," he said.

Lawrence gave a sharp nod. "Indeed!" he very nearly snarled. "He sat himself down across from my desk and declared that he would wait for your return. I swear he made me feel like some sort of servant…anyway, there was nothing for it but to politely offer him tea and bore him with small talk. I was just getting started about how much I wanted to purchase a new bell for the belfry when you came in."

"And the rest I know." Lawrence nodded and took another sip of tea.

For the third time that evening, silence descended upon the pastor and the Potions Master. Severus leaned back in his chair, staring at a spot in the ceiling but not seeing it at all. _Stupid Death Eaters_, he thought savagely. _Can't Voldemort just leave well enough alone? _He mentally snorted at that. _But no, of _course_ he can't! He's the bloody Dark Lord, for Merlin's sake, and I'm the bloody traitor to his sodding little 'cause.' So of _course_ he just has to send his little minions after me. Luckily none of them can get…inside…wait…_

"Lawrence?"

The pastor, who had slumped forward in his chair, teacup dangerously close to toppling out of his hands, started and sat up straight. "Yes, Severus?" he asked, sounding as sleepy as Severus had earlier.

"How _did_ Malfoy get in here?" Snape said, giving Lawrence a piercing look and mentally boxing his own ears for not thinking to ask the question earlier.

Lawrence stifled a yawn and absently placed his teacup on his desk. "Through the front door?"

Snape growled and leaned forward, elbows on knees and black eyes focused intently on the man in front of him. "Don't be stupid!" he snapped. "How did he get _in_ through the front door?"

"Walked?" said Lawrence, rather snidely for a pastor.

Snape leaned his forehead exasperatedly on his right fist. "_No_, Lawrence!" he exclaimed, making a mental note to not bother the man when he was working on sermons or when he was sleepy. "Listen to what I am asking! He is a Death Eater. This place is protected by holy magic, so that people fully corrupted by evil cannot get in. Death Eaters are fully corrupted by evil. Therefore, he should not have been sitting in your office having tea with you! _How. Did. He. Get. In?_"

Beckett placed his cup of tea on his desk before answering. "The same way you did, I imagine."

Severus nearly tore his hair out in frustration. "Stop playing games with me, Lawrence!" he exclaimed, more pleading than angry.

"I'm not."

Snape jerked back as though struck. "What do you mean?" he asked, voice nearly a whisper.

Lawrence gazed at him solemnly, his deep brown eyes locking gazes with Severus. "I am not playing games with you, Severus," he said in a quite voice. "I meant what I said about Malfoy entering the same way you did, albeit under different circumstances." Suddenly he pushed himself out of his chair and began to slowly pace around the study, arms folded across his chest and brows furrowed.

Severus watched him warily, too shocked to say anything of substance and too curious to say something that might delay the pastor's explanation.

His patience was rewarded a few moments later. As he paced, running a finger absently across the spines of books on his bookshelves, Lawrence began to speak. "The reason why holy magic is so difficult to perform lies in its very nature." He stopped and turned to look straight into Severus's eyes, as though awaiting his answer.

Snape cleared his throat. "It's…fickle," he said, more of a question than a statement.

Lawrence nodded. "Yes, very fickle. It works differently depending on the combination of its users' heart and needs. For example, someone with a great deal of love in her heart and a desire to protect her children could, using holy magic, erect a ward so strong none could break it, not even Albus Dumbledore himself. Or, a young healer with great compassion and a need to heal a terminally ill patient could perform a healing spell that could literally save someone from the grasp of death. Never resurrect, mind you; but save, when all other hope is lost." He returned to his desk at this point to whet his throat with tea.

Severus listened to the impromptu lesson with rapt attention. Precious few witches and wizards knew much about holy magic; even less could actually perform it, and only a small amount could perform it well.

He didn't get long to think of the implications of sitting in a room with an undoubted practitioner of holy magic, though. Lawrence had resumed pacing, and thus had resumed speaking. Severus thrust any stray thoughts aside, curious and eager to soak up any information Lawrence had to give.

"And as if it wasn't difficult enough, those examples don't take into account the motivations of the users," he said. "If the young healer, his heart still full of compassion and still with a need to save his patients, wanted to do so to gain personal glory, the magic would sense this and might save the patient while cursing him. Or it might not save the patient at all; or it might just backfire on the user and send him flying across the infirmary, or who else knows what." A small, humourless smile played on the corners of Lawrence's mouth. "You see, holy magic is God's greatest gift to humankind. It is even less than one one-billionth of His power, and yet, look what it can do –but only when the user is worthy of using it."

Severus frowned a little at that. "But what is the difference between heart and motivation? If someone is compassionate, how can he still be motivated by his own glory? And, as interesting as this all is, what does it have to do with Lucius Malfoy?" he asked, nearly shouting by the end of it.

Lawrence sighed and plopped down unceremoniously in his seat. "It's…difficult to explain," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes tiredly behind his glasses. "You must have noticed by now the world isn't black and white; merely blurred shades of grey. As much as it pains me to say it, no one is good all the time. Not even me, the bloody –"

" – pastor of a bloody church, yes," said Severus, giving Lawrence a small, thoughtful smile.

Lawrence smiled back. "Only one Man ever lived a sinless life, and that was Christ," he murmured, then gave a slight shake of his head and returned to the topic at hand. "But, the opposite also holds true, you know. Just as no one can ever be good all the time, few people can ever be truly evil. Though every person has the innate ability to sin, we are all made in God's image and thus also have the ability to do good. It's what we choose to do, that makes us good or evil."

He stopped and gazed expectantly at Severus for a moment before continuing on. "Not many people realise that magic is almost a sentient thing; holy magic more so than other types. It can sense a person's potential goodness or evilness. Some say it weights a user's heart on some sort of scale, and those found wanting do not get the results they want when they use holy magic. The consequences for someone unworthy of its use who uses it anyway can be staggering. It judges the heart, not appearance. Someone who looks and acts like a saint could really be a devil at heart; and the reverse also holds true. Some have died from using holy magic when they weren't worthy of it, Severus. It is both good and dangerous, just like the God who made it."

Here he stopped, sipping down the dregs of his tea and sighing again. "And that's just scratching the surface," he said wearily, giving his guest a small smile. "If you really want to know more about it, I have plenty of books, just like I said. But, just to make sure this little lesson didn't just waste my vocal cords, let me give you a tiny pop quiz."

Severus beat him to it. "What does all this have to do with Lucius Malfoy?" he asked, quirking his eyebrow at the pastor. "I suppose it means that even though Lucius Malfoy looks like a bastard and acts like a bastard, he might be a good person at heart."

Lawrence clapped his hands and laughed. "What a splendid student!" he exclaimed with mock surprise. "Not only do you know the question before I ask it, but you know the answer as well!"

Severus chuckled lightly until a thought hit him broadside. "That almost sounds like me," he said slowly. "For almost twenty years I've had to act like a complete and utter monster to keep my cover as a spy and to protect those stupid dunderheads back at Hogwarts. Maybe…" he paused, running a long finger thoughtfully over his chin, "maybe Lucius acts that way to protect Narcissa and Draco – his family," he added at Lawrence's blank look. "I'm sure Voldemort's threatened them more than once to get Malfoy to do his bidding. He's a proud man, Lucius. Quite frankly, I've always been surprised he'd bend his knee to someone besides his own image for so long a time. I suppose it's to save those he cares about."

Lawrence beamed at him. "Splendid, Severus! I'll make a thinking man out of you yet!"

Snape smirked at the teasing, letting it go for once in his life. "I am not finished," he drawled, leaning back imperiously in his chair as if it were a throne. "I've come to the conclusion that perhaps Malfoy wasn't here to capture me after all; maybe he wants to test the waters and see if my true side could protect him." Even as he spoke, another thought slammed into his head with such force he nearly flinched.

"Or," he added, voice subdued and quite, "Voldemort threatened to kill his family unless he brought me, the traitor, back to him…"

The levity in the room suddenly disappeared, replaced with deep apprehension. "It's a possibility," whispered Lawrence.

"But then he wouldn't have been able to get in!" said Severus, brow furrowed. "Capturing me and bringing me to my death to save his family isn't exactly a saintly thing to do. Shouldn't the holy magic – and God's protection of this place! – protect me from him?"

"I don't know," said Lawrence. "Holy magic is so complicated. God Himself is complicated. You must know the saying: 'God works in mysterious ways.' It's impossible to outthink God, Severus. Let's just say He knows what He's doing and go to bed, eh?"

Severus, feeling rather unsatisfied with Lawrence's answer, opened his mouth to argue but yawned instead. He glared at his friend as if it were his fault, but yawned yet again when he opened his mouth.

Lawrence raised his eyebrow and gave him another disturbing smirk. "Bedtime, I think," he said, sounding very much like an indulgent father addressing a petulant child.

Severus glared but couldn't do much of anything else as the pastor shuffled him out of the study and into his guest bedroom, promising that they would continue their discussion next morning if Severus wanted to. He then bade the Potions Master good night and shut the door, heading off to his own bedroom.

As soon as Lawrence went away, Severus collapsed on the bed, not even bothering to take off his clothes. He slowly toed off his shoes, yawning _again_ as he buried himself under the blankets and pulling them over his head. The little candle still burning on the nightstand didn't do much for heat, and with the storm still threatening Kilterbury outside, it was rather cold in his room.

Lazily he reached into his sleeve and cast a heating charm on the blankets, finding that he didn't have enough energy to cast one on the entire room. Sleepily he put the wand back into his robe sleeve and snuggled down into the covers, wrapping his thin arms around his pillow.

He had enough presence of mind to note that coming back from clearing his head had only put more thoughts in it before he fell asleep.

* * *

A/N: Phew, that was a long chapter! And a very long Sunday! Poor Severus: ( But, it's finally over, and we can move on into the next week! Yay, huh?

I hope you didn't find this chapter too boring, with all the holy magic theory and stuff.

But, what of Lucius Malfoy? What are his motives? Is he really wanting to join the side of the Light, or is he planning the best way to corner Snape and bring him to Voldemort? Gasp: D

So yah, if there's any Lucius fans out there, be very happy. He'll be in the story a lot from now on.

…

Well, maybe not a lot a lot, but still, quite a bit. : )

Thanks for reading! Please review and feed the hungry author! I couldn't work on this except for brief spurts at a time between homework and class, so anything – even hi, the story's nice – (or I suppose, hi, you suck, lol, bye would suffice at the moment). Except, if you're going to flame me, please explain _why_, so I can get better. : )

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed thus far! You all have given some very interesting comments and pointers; I'm very happy for them. God knows this is the first time I've actually tried living out my faith, and suffice to say, I'm not really all that good at it. : D Some things I take for granted or just don't notice others do, and I'm glad when you let me know if I've screwed up or something doesn't make sense.

Oi, such a long author's note. I'll let you go now!

Cheers,

Ballad


	7. Chapter 7: One Step Closer

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad  
Genre: Drama/Spiritual  
Pairings: None so far  
Timeline: AU fifth year, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin  
Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )

A/N: Thanks to Jacir and houquilter, my two reviewers, and of course to Ominous Voices, my very lovely and very patient beta. Lots of hugs go out to you all. I'm really sorry this is out so late – really sorry! But, Real Life Adventures got in the way of Writing Fanfiction, so…it's not my fault…really, it's not! You've got to believe me!!!

Anyway…soon, Snape will accept Christ, and then it's back to Hogwarts for the real fun!

* * *

Chapter Seven: One Step Closer 

Hitherto Thy love hast blessed me  
Thou hast brought me to this place  
And I know Thy hand will bring me  
Safely home by Thy good grace

Jesus saw me when a stranger  
Wandering from the fold of God  
He to rescue me from danger  
Bought me with his precious blood.

_Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing_, traditional hymn

* * *

Harry Potter walked with his two friends toward the Great Hall, stuck between being grateful and annoyed that it was Monday.

"On the one hand, it's the end of the weekend and that's no fun," he told Ron as they ambled down the stairs. "On the other, there's no Potions. That's something to be thankful for."

"Yeah, until tomorrow," said Ron glumly as they entered the Great Hall and sat down at the Gryffindor table. Above them huge white clouds drifted lazily across the enchanted blue sky of the ceiling. Harry felt distinctly like one of those clouds; not really up to doing anything that required fast movement. He doubted he could even play a decent game of Quidditch in his current state.

The fault lay with the teachers, naturally. It was the O.W.L. year, and they all seemed determined to lay on the class work and homework as if the world was about to end. Especially Snape, the Greasy Git himself.

"All right, Harry?" asked a tired voice near his elbow. The Boy-Who-Lived glanced up to see Neville Longbottom stifling a yawn as he plopped down at the table next to the Trio.

"Morning, Neville," said Harry, yawning despite himself. "You didn't happen to finish the Herbology homework from Thursday, did you?" He felt a little guilty allowing the Herbology assignment to sit undone in his book bag, but with all the difficult Transfigurations and Potions homework McGonagall and Snape loaded the fifth years with, he just didn't have the time to focus on a relatively easy class.

"Yah," said Neville absently as he picked at a muffin. "I…you can borrow it if you want to…"

Harry shook his head quickly. "No, that's okay," he said. The only subject Neville ever did well in happened to be Herbology, and leeching off of him just seemed wrong. He got enough flack from Snape, and even McGonagall; he deserved to shine a little in his best and favourite subject.

"He isn't at breakfast again," said Hermione quietly. Harry turned to see who she was talking about and, following her gaze, found himself staring at the Head Table.

Ron, who was busy stuffing his face with eggs and sausage without regards to manners, didn't even bother to look for himself. "Who?" he asked, mouth full of food.

Hermione wrinkled her nose at him, but years of badgering Ron on proper table etiquette hadn't worked, and she seemed to have given up the nagging. "Professor Snape, Ron," she said, her brows knitting together in worry instead of disgust.

Ron swallowed a large mouthful of food and gave Hermione a strange look. "Who cares what the git is up to?" he asked, reaching for the pitcher of orange juice and pouring himself a glass. "For all we know he's lurking around somewhere, waiting to take points off anyone who breathes!"

Harry snickered at this, but Hermione wasn't amused at all. "Honestly! When will you _ever_ show teachers proper respect?" she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest and turning back around to stare at the Head Table. "He hasn't been at a meal since Friday morning," she said, as if to herself. "I wonder if he's sick or something."

Harry was just about to say that if that happened to be true, he hoped the git wouldn't get better when a thought came to him. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen Snape anywhere since Friday," he said as he musingly cut up a waffle and took a bite. "I'll bet he's –"

But before Harry got a chance to finish speaking, Dumbledore stood up at the Head Table. In moments the entire Great Hall fell silent in respect for the Headmaster. Even from his vantage point near the end of the Gryffindor table, Harry could tell Dumbledore was smiling and his blue eyes were twinkling.

"I have a quick announcement I would like to make before you leave for morning classes," the elderly wizard said amiably.

"I wonder if it's about Professor Snape?" whispered Hermione.

"Who cares…"

"Ron!"

Harry leaned away from his bickering friends, trying to hear what Dumbledore had to say. "…been informed that Professor Snape is away on personal business –" here the Great Hall erupted in excited, happy whispers – "and does not know when he will return," finished the Headmaster, a slightly disapproving look on his face as he gazed out at the students cheering the absence of their Potions Master.

"Oh, no! I hope nobody in his family has died or something awful like that!" exclaimed Hermione.

"All right! No more Potions class!"

"_Ron_! Honestly, if you're _ever_ going to be an Auror, you need to take Potions more seriously, or –"

"But," said Dumbledore, interrupting Hermione and doubtless many happy conversations, "you will all still be able to attend Potions classes, as I will be taking over until Professor Snape is able to return."

"'_Able_ to attend Potions', he said? Is he mad? No one in their right mind likes that class!"

"Ronald Weasley!"

"Ouch! That hurt, 'Mione!"

"It was meant to! Maybe it'll knock some sense into your empty head!"

Harry, perfectly used to such displays, turned back to his breakfast when the Headmaster sat back down and engaged McGonagall in conversation. The other Gryffindors ignored their two squabbling housemates in favour of their food as well. He shrugged to himself as he tucked into his meal. With all the strange dreams about corridors he'd been having lately, he couldn't bring himself to care much about where his least favourite teacher happened to be. Well, maybe that time he'd woken up screaming for some reason he couldn't remember had something to do with Snape, but really –

"Do you…do you think anything bad has happened to him? Professor Snape, I mean?" Neville asked tentatively, interrupting Harry's thoughts.

Harry, a little shocked that Neville would actually _care_ about the welfare of his most feared professor, just gaped at him as egg dripped off his fork. Neville flushed and turned his gaze to his plate, contemplating his half-eaten sausage in deep embarrassment.

"Neville, I don't really care where Snape is or what has happened to him," said Harry rather bluntly (but only for Neville's ears lest Hermione hear and start harping on him as well). "Wherever he is, you know he's up to no good."

Neville shrugged at that. "Maybe," he mumbled. "But I'm still worried about him."

Again, Harry found himself gaping at his friend in disbelief. "But Neville, he's awful to you! He treats you like yesterday's garbage and goes out of his way to make sure you fail in Potions, no matter what you do! How can you possibly _worry_ about that –" Hermione flashed him a Warning Look – "man?" he finished lamely, catching Ron's gaze and rolling his eyes in Hermione's direction.

Neville shook his head, appearing very flustered. "I don't know," he said in a small voice. "I just…have this feeling…that I should."

Harry was about to comment on that when the bell rang to signal the end of breakfast and send students off to their morning classes. Neville mumbled something Harry didn't catch and picked up his book bag and shuffled out of the Great Hall.

As his friends rose to leave, Harry filled them in on his conversation with Neville. "I dunno about Neville," said Ron as they walked down the hallway toward the large front doors. "He's actually worried about the Greasy Git? Mad, he is."

"No, he's not!" exclaimed Hermione, walking briskly to keep up with Ron's longer strides. "He's a good person, unlike _some _people around here!" She gave both Ron and Harry meaningful glares before stepping up her pace and disappearing in the directions of the greenhouses.

"What's wrong with Hermione this morning, mate?" asked Ron as he and Harry walked along at a more leisurely pace. "It's just Snape, after all. You'd think she actually _liked_ him or something."

A cool morning breeze mussed Harry's unruly black hair even more as he laughed at Ron's statement. "In what way?" he asked slyly, earning a horrified look from his best friend.

"_Don't_, Harry, that's disgusting," he said, looking faintly green. "I just ate a big breakfast!" Harry chuckled at his friend's discomfort and, waving at Hagrid, whose class they had after Herbology, walked up to Greenhouse Four. Any thoughts of Snape fled his mind as he made up many excuses on why he hadn't finished his homework.

* * *

The object of the students' ruminations had woken relatively early the exact same day – around 7 am – eager to get his hands on whatever books Lawrence had to offer him. Not only did he want to read anything about redemption and forgiveness, but anything dealing with holy magic as well. Lawrence had piqued his curiosity, and now it demanded to be satisfied. 

After dressing and taking care of the morning's ablutions, he made his way to Pastor Beckett's quarters. Snape rapped smartly on the door with the back of his knuckles, fidgeting in place when his knock wasn't immediately answered. A smirk curved his lips at what his students would say if they saw their stoic Potions Master now, as excited as a small child in Honeyduke's. They'd probably faint with shock, the _precious_ little darlings.

Only the thought of procuring new knowledge interested him more than potions, which would make his students _die_ with shock, to be sure. He knew they thought he lived, ate and drank the subject with no other interests in between.

He was just entertaining the thoughts of their _darling_ little faces contorted in disbelief if he ever told them he enjoyed classical music and Muggle crime novels when Pastor Beckett's door creaked open. Any thoughts of torturing his students fled his mind after taking one look at his friend.

"You look like you've been blown up," he said bluntly.

A rather muss-haired, wide-eyed, soot-covered pastor stared back at him. "I know," he coughed, square glasses dangling precariously off his left ear.

"What _have_ you been doing in here? Illegal potions experiments?" asked Snape, gently shoving Lawrence aside to peek inside and assess the damage. A small cauldron and table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by debris. Scorch marks marred the walls and ceiling, and papers of all sorts littered the floor.

"I've been trying to make a healing potion since five o' clock this morning," said Lawrence as Snape gaped at the wreckage. Bits of the bedspread smoked ominously, as did one leg of his desk. Only the bookshelves and their precious occupants remained undamaged.

"A healing potion," repeated Snape, suddenly overcome with images of Neville Longbottom destroying his classroom back at Hogwarts. He felt the sudden urge to pinch the bridge of his nose and wander back into his bedroom and hide under the blankets.

He stepped further into the room, putting out the smoking bedspread and desk leg with an absent swish of his wand so. Nearing the cauldron, he found it still partially filled with whatever combustible substance Lawrence had accidentally concocted. The pale brown liquid sloshed and bubbled, emitting a foul, salty smell whenever one of the bubbles popped.

"A healing potion," Snape said again, looking at the cauldron and wondering just what Lawrence did to make exploding goo instead of what he had intended to brew.

"Yes," said Lawrence with a defeated sigh. "I can't help it if Potions was my worst subject in school. I thought I'd learn it and forget it and never have to use it again, seeing as how I was going into ministry. I didn't figure that I'd need to make healing potions for whatever town in which I served as a pastor, you know." His voiced seemed slightly pinched, as though something was lodged in his throat.

Snape didn't really hear anything beyond "Potions was my worst subject in school." He glanced incredulously at Lawrence. "It is beyond me how anyone could be a disaster at Potions," he said firmly. "All it entails is adding the correct ingredients in the correct order and stirring the correct amount of times. Simple."

Lawrence huffed at this, wiping off his face with the sleeve of a green plaid flannel shirt. Snape did a double-take. For the first time since he had met Lawrence, the man wasn't wearing his black pastor's robes. Instead, he had donned a pair of jeans a pair of Muggle trainers.

"For me, it's a little more difficult than that," he said, whipping out his wand, repairing his glasses and perching them on the end of his slightly pointed nose. "Most people would agree with me."

Snape raised his eyebrows. "Most people aren't Potions Masters though, are they?"

"Ah, no. No, they're not."

Snape inclined his head in triumph and, Lawrence effectively silenced, he turned to ponder the pastor's cauldron and discover how his concoction had become a mess instead of a potion.

"You never mentioned that about yourself before, you know," said Lawrence few moments later. Snape rolled his eyes. Well, _almost_ effectively silenced.

"I didn't think it pertinent at the time," he said shortly, bending carefully over the cauldron and wafting the fumes toward his nose. To his complete surprise he felt uncomfortable with such words hanging between them, and immediately apologized. "I'm sorry Lawrence, but I really do not like to be interrupted when I'm working." He glanced ruefully over at the pastor, who was smiling for some odd reason.

"Perfectly all right, Severus," he said mildly. "I'll just go make us a pot of coffee while you work on my mess, O Master of Potions." He chuckled as he disappeared into his small kitchen.

Snape rolled his eyes, not even noticing that he, too, had a smile on his face.

He turned and bent back over the cauldron, tapping his finger absently against his chin. Lawrence began humming a hymn loudly in the kitchen, but long years of practice allowed Snape to ignore almost any noise not related to potion making; including but certainly not limited to insufferable students, Peeves, and headmasters trying to get him to go on social outings with the rest of the staff.

A particularly loud bang and rather colourful swear word didn't even phase him as he bent closer, peering critically into the cauldron's depths. A finger to the edge of the cauldron came back quickly; a bit burned, but nothing he couldn't deal with later. Absently he rubbed the abused skin against his thumb, muttering to himself about liquid density and consistency before picking up the ladle next to the cauldron and dipping it inside.

He immediately regretted doing so. As soon as he lifted the ladle from the liquid, a bubble burst all over the front of his robes. "Damn!" he exclaimed, jumping back a little and plugging his nose as the foul, salty smell inundated him. Gagging, he dropped the ladle and scrabbled for his wand just as the liquid burned through his robes and hissed as it met his skin.

He gasped and doubled over, letting his wand drop from suddenly limp fingers as pain wracked his body. It felt like knives heated in a fire were pressing against his skin from the inside out; sharp and white hot and utterly unlike anything he'd ever experienced. A hiss escaped from behind clenched teeth as his knees hit the stone floor, jolting him and only increasing the torment he felt. Pain – raw, aching, burning pain – it consumed him; set his nerves on fire and his skin ablaze and he just _knew_ his skin glowed red hot, it must, for he was burning up from the inside out and –

He heard someone screaming – it was him, he knew it was him; his throat felt raw and his chest heaved with the effort of taking in air; it burned to breathe, and yet he must, if he wanted to live; but why should he live through such torment? It would be better to die than to live with the fire and burning and pain and –

"SEVERUS! Oh Lord, my God, give me strength – _Finite Incantatem_!"

Burning and fire, like whips of flame torching his skin and – wait…a coolness began spreading from his chest, tentative at first, but it felt so good not to be burning. He sobbed in relief, not noticing the hot tears streaking down his cheeks, but flinching away from tentative hands that touched still-burning skin.

"No…don't touch me…it hurtssss…" he hissed, curling into a foetal position as the blessed coolness enveloped his body, slowly putting out the flames.

"Severus…are you…what happened?" asked a soft voice filled with worry above him. He could only shake his head miserably as the icy feeling surrounded his body, almost to the point of discomfort, then began to fade away.

"Dump it," he rasped, voice hoarse and throat raw. "Dump the potion out; better yet, Evanesco it." He took in a shaking, rattling breath and looked up into Lawrence's concerned brown eyes. "I don't know how, but you've managed to brew something worse than the Cruciatus curse."

The blood drained from the pastor's face and he made a peculiar motion, moving his hand from chin to chest and across both shoulders. "_Evanesco_," he fairly whispered, flicking his wand at the cauldron and the liquid inside. Both wavered as if seen through great heat, then slowly disappeared from view.

The two men stayed that way for several moments: Severus curled up in a ball on the floor, and Lawrence kneeling next to him. When he thought he could, Snape rose a shaking hand to his brow and swiped off the hot sweat that had accumulated there during his ordeal. He took deep, calming breaths and slowly pushed himself off the cold stone floor – which curiously had had no effect on him whilst under the potion's influence. A shiver wracked his thin body, and when he wrapped his arms instinctively about his torso, skin met skin.

Shocked, he looked down at his body and could not stifle a gasp at what he saw. The remains of his clothing hung in tatters about his elbows and pooled in his lap. His skin, once a sickly pale, was now a mottled deep scarlet, covered in tiny blisters. Some had popped, leaking a clear amber liquid that burned the still-sensitive skin.

Severus hunched over on himself, drawing at what clothing he had left to return whatever remained of his dignity. He felt his cheeks flush in shame and couldn't look his friend in the eye.

"I was making coffee when I heard you start screaming," said Lawrence quietly, a few moments later. "I rushed in and panicked when I saw you on the ground, clawing at your skin as if it burned you." He tried to meet Severus's eyes, but Snape still avoided his gaze. He reached out, but at Snape's involuntary flinch, drew back immediately. "I am so sorry," he whispered. "I should have helped you the moment I realised what had happened, but I couldn't make myself move, I was frozen and – I'm making excuses, aren't I?" The pastor made a disgusted sound in his throat, then rose swiftly to his feet.

The sudden movement surprised Severus, who watched as Lawrence snatched the white-and-green patterned bedspread from his bed and, coming to kneel once again next to the hurt man, draped it gently across his shoulders. "Thank God Himself that you're no worse off. Could you forgive me, Severus?" he asked, finally catching and holding the Potions Master's gaze.

Completely dumbfounded, Snape slowly nodded as he pulled the blanket about himself. "Of course," he rasped, then cleared his throat and tried again. "Of course. You…saved my life. Why shouldn't I forgive you?" Somehow, having had his life saved by Lawrence didn't bother Snape as much as it would have had the same incident happened only a week earlier.

Lawrence blinked. "Really? I rather thought you were angry with me, you know, since you wouldn't look at me," he said.

Snape found his lips drawing back into a rueful smile. "Of course I am not angry with you! I was just…feeling a bit awkward, sitting half-nude in your…bedroom."

The comment hung in the air for exactly one second before both wizards burst out laughing. "That's…absurd!" wheezed Lawrence between guffaws, pounding the floor with a fist.

"Isn't it, though?" gasped Snape, holding his sides in the first real laugh he'd had in…quite a while, actually.

The two men might have kept laughing for minutes longer had the blisters on Severus's chest, abdomen and thighs not burst a moment later. Severus gasped in pain, feeling his eyes water up as the clear liquid seeped agonisingly slow from the burst blisters and onto still sensitive skin.

Lawrence noticed and immediately stopped laughing, leaning toward his friend in renewed concern. "Blisters," said Snape shortly as he opened his mouth, no doubt to ask what was wrong. The pastor winced in sympathy, then got up from the floor.

"Here, give me your hand," he said. Snape tentatively reached out – his hands ached from clawing at the floor and his skin – and allowed Lawrence to gently help him to his feet. After seating himself on the surprisingly comfortable bed, Lawrence went to the wardrobe and began digging around inside.

"I don't have any healing potions or salves, unfortunately," he said, voice somewhat muffled as he shuffled various garments about. "We'll have to go into town; there's a small apothecary just two blocks away from the pub. I'm sure old Gert will have something that will help you; she's an excellent herbologist, you know."

Snape watched somewhat bemusedly as he emerged from the wardrobe a moment later, a pair of black denim pants and a black Muggle turtleneck in his hands. A slender eyebrow rose as he inspected the clothing, but he reached out without comment and Lawrence passed the garments over.

He gave the pastor a pointed look. "Shoo," he said, making a dismissive gesture with one slender hand. Lawrence quirked an eyebrow at him in a disturbingly familiar gesture, then gave him a deep bow.

"As you wish, O Master of Potions," he said, making a grand sweep with his arm and backing into the kitchen. Snape shook his head in amusement – some people just never could stay serious for very long – and then stripped off what was left of his robes and slacks.

"The coffee is still in here," floated Lawrence's voice out of the kitchen as Snape tried to navigate his way into the turtleneck without popping any more blisters. "I could heat some up if you want; it should still be good, you know."

"Mmrf," said Snape, head stuck inside the turtleneck.

"Severus? Did you hear me?"

Snape popped his head out the top of the infuriating garment and rolled the long collar down off of his mouth. "Yes to both questions," he replied, a little testily he supposed, for Lawrence almost stuck his head into the bedroom to ask what was wrong and nearly got hexed for his trouble.

"Sorry," said Snape unrepentantly. "It's just this turtleneck…I never liked them as a child and still don't, if you want to know the truth." He straightened it over his torso, hissing whenever the soft wool hitched on a blister or sensitive spot on his skin. The denim slacks went on much easier, though they fit loosely and the rougher material hurt the sores on his thighs.

"Well, it was that or something not black in nature," came the pastor's voice. "Unless of course you happen to like red tartan?"

Snape gave a little sneer, though the mention of tartan made him think of McGonagall. He briefly wondered how the fiery Scot was doing before he replied, "Not really, no."

"I thought as much," chuckled Lawrence from the kitchen. Severus straightened the turtleneck and pants and thanked God that his leather boots had been spared from the potion's destruction. Fleetingly he wished he could have analyzed the substance in his lab, but immediately dismissed the thought. It was much too dangerous to keep around, even if it was a fluke and probably could never be made again.

Sure that his borrowed clothing looked as good as it could on his slighter frame, he walked over to the kitchen door and knocked on the jamb. "Is the coffee ready? I find myself positively needing a mug at the moment."

In answer the pastor sat a large mug of the steaming beverage onto the table. Snape swooped down on the coffee, plopping himself down in front of it and inhaling the bittersweet aroma.

A chuckle to his left caught his attention, and he glanced sideways to see Lawrence loading his coffee up – predictably – with plenty of cream and sugar. "Addicted are we?" he asked teasingly, sitting down next to the Potions Master. He bowed his head for a moment, then looked up, grin back in place. "You're welcome, by the way."

"Indeed," said Snape, shrugging and bringing the mug to his lips. "And a fine addiction it is."

Lawrence chuckled again. "One day, Severus, you'll need ten cups of coffee just to feel alive, you know."

"Indeed," repeated Snape. Lawrence shook his head in mock disappointment, and for a few moments the two men sat quietly, enjoying the hot drink and each other's company after their harrowing experience that morning.

Taking a large sip of coffee and feeling much better after having done so, Snape turned his attention to his friend. "I originally came to ask if I could borrow some books from you," he said, picking at a defect in the wood of the table. "May I?"

"Of course, Severus," replied Pastor Beckett immediately. "Take whatever you like; you're welcome to anything I have, you know."

Snape nodded, then gave him a sly sideways glance. "I suppose that includes cauldrons full of dangerous, slightly corrosive and mildly painful torture potions?"

Lawrence gave a hearty mock sigh. "That was my fifth – and last – cauldron," he lamented with a sip of sugar-and-creamed coffee.

Snape shot him an amused look. "Fifth? My, my; we are incompetent, aren't we?" he said, giving the pastor a small smile to take the edge off his words. The two Slytherins shared a smirk, then finished off their coffee and prepared to leave.

"Feel free to ask me any questions you may have on the way there and back again," offered Lawrence as he once again plucked Snape's empty mug from his hands and washed it in the sink. Severus just let him do it, knowing that arguing would get him nowhere.

"Of course," he replied, waiting for Lawrence to dry his hands on a small light green towel. Both wizards then exited the pastor's quarters, making a quick detour so Snape could grab his cloak ("What about you?" "Oh no, I'm fine; used to it by now") and then heading into the cool, crisp morning.

* * *

A/N: Well, what does anyone think? It's a bit noticeable that there's not much mention of God here; since next chapter is going to be really heavy on theology, I thought I'd just set up a little characterization and some (badly needed) action. : ) 

Once again, a thousand apologies for taking so long for posting this. I have only two more weeks of school, and then the whole month of December to catch up on writing stuff! Yay! Wish me luck in Stats: )

Cheers,

Ballad


	8. Chapter 8: Is It Well With Your Soul?

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad

Genre: Drama/Spiritual  
Pairings: None so far  
Timeline: AU fifth year, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin  
Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )

EDIT: Lol, I forgot to have Gert give Severus the ingredients…that's fixed now. : )

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, you guys. : ) Now that I have the entire month of December off, hopefully I will be able to get chapters out faster. Big hugs and thanks to Ominous Voices, who got sick but is happily feeling much better now. Thanks to everyone who is reading!

Chapter Eight: Is it Well with Your Soul?

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

As the two walked down the street, Snape kept pausing to discreetly hitch up his pants. Lawrence found this extremely amusing, and mentioned that Snape ought to buy himself some new clothing since his others had been destroyed.

"I wouldn't need to buy anything if you hadn't have brewed that disaster of yours," Snape groused, somewhere in between good-natured and quite irritated. "And if you don't shut up, I'll just shrink them and leave you to figure out what your real size is." Lawrence just grinned at him.

"Eventually you would have needed something new anyway," he said. "One can only wash a set of clothing so many times and still feel clean, you know. We can stop by the tailor's shop after visiting Old Gert and getting you a healing potion."

Snape grunted and opened his mouth to (begrudgingly) agree when a thought came to him.

He had no money.

He could have punched himself at that realisation, but in his own defence, he hadn't left school on Friday with pockets full of Galleons, expecting to be discovered as a spy and chased around Scotland like a fox during hunting season.

So, instead of agreeing, he politely told Lawrence that that would not be necessary; he would wear the borrowed clothes and quit complaining. The pastor gave him a surprised look.

"Are you certain?" he asked, knitting his brows together.

"Quite," said Severus nonchalantly, waiting until the pastor turned his head to hitch up his pants with a little grimace.

The two men walked farther on for a few moments in silence. Clouds from last night's storm still hung in the sky, but none looked threatening. Severus felt certain his little white lie had gone over unnoticed until Lawrence stepped off the main road and gently but firmly pulled Snape with him.

"You don't have any money, do you." It was a statement, not a question. Snape stared into the suddenly serious brown eyes and gulped. _Blast! Discovered!_

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied smoothly, lifting his eyebrow in his best you're-wasting-time-with-such-stupid-questions look. Lawrence sighed, looked at the sky for a few seconds, and then back at Severus, his features rearranged into a slightly exasperated grin.

"'Pride goeth before a fall', Severus," he said. "I just got through telling you that anything I have is yours. That includes my money too, you know."

Severus crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the pastor, who tucked his hands into his slacks pockets and continued smiling at him. He felt his anger shift, wobble, and disappear, finding himself unable to sustain any sort of ill feeling against his friend.

Dreadfully annoying, that.

He sighed and resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I couldn't possibly take your money," he said, a little exasperated himself. "It's bad enough that I land on your doorstep, sopping wet and—hurt," he amended after a quick glance at the people passing by them, some giving them curious but unassuming stares as they walked on by. "I can't pay you back for taking me in, giving me a place to sleep and food to eat, and I certainly won't compound my debt by asking you to lend me money for clothing!"

During this entire speech Lawrence had shaken his head, lips quirked in an amused grin. It grated on Severus's nerves, and he was just about to tell his friend to stop grinning like an idiot when the man cleared his throat.

"It was never my intention to make you feel as if you needed to pay me back," he said gently. "I helped you because you needed it, and because I wanted to. I still want to, if you'll let me. As you pointed out earlier, it is my fault that you need new clothing in the first place."

Snape sighed and chewed on his bottom lip irritably. "But _why_ do you want to help me? I've given you no reason to! It just isn't logical!" he exclaimed, stuck between wanting to accept Lawrence's offer and feeling guilty about wanting to accept it.

Lawrence gave him another little grin. "I told you, Severus," he said patiently, "that I helped you because I wanted to. I do believe it's a spiritual gift of mine, and I cherish any opportunity I have to use it. As for it not being logical—well, no one has ever accused me of being logical, you know."

Snape found himself amused against his will. "Quite the opposite, I presume?" he said, quirking an eyebrow.

"Quite."

They stared at each other for few moments, earning more curious glances from passers-by. Snape finally had to look away; it was just pathetic for a grown man to use puppy-dog eyes on another grown man. He sighed, feeling himself losing the inward battle between accepting and rejecting Lawrence's proposal. _Argh, what the hell._

"Fine," he said to the pastor's trainers, not daring to look the man in the eye.

"Splendid!" came the expected response. "We'll just stop by Old Gert's, get a potion for you and more ingredients for me, and then head on over to the tailor's." A hand grabbed his elbow, pulling him back onto the main road and back into the chilly morning breeze. The wind blew straight through Snape's cloak and sweater to sting his skin. He walked silently beside Lawrence as the man nattered on about spiritual gifts and finding one's niche within the church when suddenly he had a thought.

"Lawrence?"

"Hmm?"

"Why are we going to an apothecary to get ingredients for a healing potion instead of buying a healing potion _from_ the apothecary?"

Lawrence shrugged. "I suppose it has something to do with the fact that she has two small children and can't brew any potions herself. Some fumes from certain potions are dangerous to young children, aren't they?"

Snape nodded impatiently. "Yes, but what about her husband? Can't he care for the children while she brews the potions?"

The pastor suddenly became quiet, his amiable smile fading away. "She doesn't have a husband, Severus."

"Ah," said Severus. His insatiable curiosity very nearly opened its mouth to ask 'why not,' but as that would make him even more of a tactless idiot, he held his tongue and walked silently beside Pastor Beckett.

The subdued duo ambled on, turning right onto Park Way and stepping out of the way of the children playing in front of their houses. Thousands of theories flew through Severus's head, each more ludicrous than the one before it. He only entertained them to keep his mind off of Lawrence's atypical melancholic silence. The Potions Master had just decided that he recognized the area when his friend gave a small sigh.

"He abandoned his family about two years ago," said the pastor, voice laced with uncharacteristic bitterness. "No one knows why; one day he was here, working at the pub, and the next he had disappeared." He glared down at the road, still slightly muddy from yesterday's storm. "I only tell you this so you do not think ill of her," he added quietly. "She is a good woman, as you'll see."

Lawrence stopped in front of a familiar door and rapped on it lightly. Snape stood behind him, tugging his slacks up and wondering if he ought to apologize for asking such a rude question in the first place when the door swung open.

A familiar plump face stared out at the two men, equally plump lips curved into a pleasant smile. "Good morning, Pastor Beckett!" the woman exclaimed, reaching out and pulling Lawrence into what looked like a bone-crushing hug. The pastor smiled and returned the gesture as best he could.

Snape stood awkwardly behind them, feeling both ignored and quite intimidated at the display of affection. He took one step backward, and as Fate would have it, stepped on something that cracked loudly beneath his heel. The Potions Master flinched and froze as the woman's eyes shot open and landed on him.

To his complete surprise, her grin got even wider. "Well hello there," she said over Lawrence's shoulder. Snape blinked; he hadn't expected her to remember him. Gently she let go of the pastor (who looked to be catching his breath after being squeezed) and moved toward Severus. Briefly the Slytherin considered making a run for it, but was grabbed before he could even decide which way to flee.

_Ah well,_ he thought as her meaty arms wrapped around his thin body_, I wouldn't have gotten far in these baggy pants_. He winced as her substantial bosom came in contact with a few blisters, but forced himself not to pull away.

Hesitantly he returned the hug, feeling even more awkward than before. Not many people who knew him wanted to touch him, much less embrace him. The last time someone had given him a hug had been when he'd confessed to Albus and cried himself to sleep in the old wizard's arms.

"Be careful with him, Gert," came Lawrence's amused voice. "He's had a potions accident and is covered in blisters."

Gert stiffened, then slowly pulled away and gave Severus an apologetic look. "I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, reaching out to pat his arm and nearly knocking him to the ground. She then turned around and placed large hands on large hips, giving Lawrence quite a glare.

"You could have told me that _before_ I hurt the poor dear!" she scolded, waving a thick finger under the pastor's pointed nose. "Now both of you come inside for some tea, and I'll get a healing potion for—oh my. We've met, and I have no idea what his name is! How rude of me!" She whirled around to face Severus, who took an involuntary step back. For some inexplicable reason, the woman strongly reminded him of Hagrid.

"My name is Severus Snape, madam," he said before she could ask. He then gave her a little bow, remembering how much she'd liked it the night before.

True to memory Gert blushed and gave him a shy smile. "Well, come in Severus," she said, fidgeting in place before ushering him toward her house. Lawrence gave him a curious look and mouthed 'you know her?' before Gert gave him a gentle shove inside, scolding him about not telling her his friend's name to begin with. She waited until Snape had entered the house to come in herself.

The inside was just as cosy and inviting as it had been the night before. A roaring fire blazed merrily in the fireplace, filling the small house with warmth and light. Gert ushered her guests to a little table near the fireplace, draped with a periwinkle blue tablecloth and decorated with a vase of what looked like dried wildflowers. Four wooden chairs completed the ensemble rather nicely.

"Sit down and I'll bring in some tea," commanded their hostess as the two men made themselves comfortable. "Earl Grey for you, Pastor?"

Lawrence nodded with a smile. "Yes, please," he said cordially. Gert shifted her blue gaze to Severus, who nodded and told her Earl Grey was fine with him as well. The plump woman smiled at her guests and told them tea would be out in a few minutes, and then they could get down to whatever business had brought them to her door.

As the apothecary disappeared behind a nearby door jamb, Lawrence turned to Severus, a curious look in his eyes. "When did you meet Gertrude?" he asked amiably. "She seems to have a very high opinion of you."

Severus coughed at that. "I bumped into her on my walk yesterday, and then happened to land on her doorstep during the storm. I apologised to her for my rudeness earlier, and she gave me directions back to the church." Lawrence hummed and leaned back in his chair.

"Was it difficult?" he asked teasingly.

"Was what difficult?"

"Why, apologising of course."

Snape resisted the childish urge to stick his tongue out at the pastor. "Of course it wasn't!" he exclaimed, somewhat sulkily. "I had a reason to apologise, remember? I needed directions to the church, and she wasn't going to give them to me until I did." He conveniently left out the role his guilty conscience had played.

Lawrence, however, seemed to sense this. "Of course that was the _only_ reason," he drawled, giving Severus an amused, pointed stare before shaking his head and laughing pleasantly. "See, you're making progress. The more you practise, the better you'll become."

Snape sniffed in mock disdain and peered down his nose at the pastor. "Says you."

Lawrence's grin grew wider. "Exactly."

Gert chose that moment to bustle back into the kitchen, a tray filled with three steaming cups of tea and a plate of fresh scones in her hands. "There you are," she said happily, placing a teacup in front of each man and taking the last for herself. "Eat up! You especially," she added, shoving a scone into Snape's hands and giving him a pointed, motherly gaze. "You're far too thin, dear."

Lawrence smirked at him from behind his teacup as Snape obediently bit into the scone, which turned out to have a lovely, mild apple flavour. He graciously thanked Gert, who blushed and straightened her blue-daisy apron sheepishly.

"MUUUUM! Malcolm stole my dolly, and he won't give her back, and he dropped her in a mud puddle, and—"

"Did not, did not, DID NOT!"

"Yes you DID, you MEANIE!"

"DID NOT!"

Snape winced as two small children ran into the room, completely shattering the peaceful silence of the morning. Both chubby faces wore petulant frowns, and both sets of clothing sported a great deal of mud.

Suddenly Gert rose from the table, towering over the two bickering children. Both children stopped fighting immediately, and hung their heads in shame at their mother's intense glare.

"Malcolm! Marion! Haven't I told you a thousand times never to play in the mud?" Both heads nodded glumly. "And I haven't I also told you how to behave when we have guests over?" Little Marion blushed and stared down at her feet, while her brother scuffed his shoes against the stone floor. "Now apologise to Pastor Beckett and Mr. Snape immediately!"

"Sorry Pastor Beckett and Mr. Snape," the two children chorused monotonously. Neither of them looked up from the floor.

"And Malcolm, give back your sister's doll. If you want one badly enough to steal Marion's, I'll buy you one; but we don't steal in this family, _do you understand_?" The little boy flushed a deep crimson and reached inside the pocket of his trousers. His hand came back out clutching a small, hand-made doll dressed in a little blue gown. He shoved it at his sister, who snatched the doll from his hands and immediately cuddled it.

Snape watched the entire exchange bemusedly, infinitely glad he hadn't gotten the same treatment when he'd shown up on her doorstep the night before. In retrospect, his apology had probably saved him from such wrath.

Gert loomed over her two chastised children a moment longer, then sighed and sat back down. "Say 'hello' to our guests, and then you may go play _quietly and nicely_ in your bedroom," she said. Malcolm and Marion shared a look and then glanced shyly up at the two men.

"Hi," they chorused, eyes quickly refocusing on their shoes.

"Hello, children," said Lawrence pleasantly, while Severus merely nodded politely. He'd never been good with children, especially not young ones like these. As soon as hello's had been exchanged, both children offered quick bows and curtsies and fled the room.

Gert shook her head in maternal exasperation before turning back to her guests. "I apologise for that," she said ruefully. "Malcolm has been acting out like that ever since—well." She flushed, eyes falling to the table and hands twisting her apron nervously.

"It's perfectly alright," said Lawrence gently, reaching out and placing a supportive hand on her upper arm. She flashed him a thankful smile, and then cleared her throat.

"Well, you obviously came here for a reason other than having tea with me. Now, how can I help you?"

To Severus's surprise, Lawrence flushed and began fiddling with his glasses. "Ah, well, you see…um…it was…well, you know…"

Gert snorted and shook her head in fond exasperation. "Did you blow up _another_ cauldron, Pastor?" she chuckled. Lawrence's face became a lovely shade of crimson. Snape smirked to himself in amusement. So, it wasn't just an isolated incident. He snorted to himself, careful not to let the other two hear.

"No! Well, that is to say, not really, it was an accident; I didn't blow up anything…"

"But you destroyed the potion, right?"

The pastor nodded, far too embarrassed to actually speak.

Gert clicked her tongue, then stood up from the table whilst dry-washing her hands on her apron. "What ingredients do you need?" Lawrence reached into his slacks pocket and held out a piece of parchment, which Gert took, unfolded and read. She looked over the edge of the parchment a few moments later, eyes wide with laughter. "A healing potion?" she asked, her voice quivering with the effort of holding back her mirth.

If possible, Lawrence's face flushed an even deeper shade of red and he stared pointedly at his hands, which lay clasped together in his lap. "That's what _he_ said," he mumbled, jerking his head in Severus's direction.

Snape, who had been watching the exchange with increasing amusement, nodded and flashed a smirk at Gert. "It was only his fifth cauldron," he said with purposeful detachment.

"Are you a Potions Master, too?" asked Gert, her attention drawn away from a very sheepish Pastor Beckett. Snape nodded, taking a sip of Earl Grey and fighting hard not to spit it out. He took another bite of the apple scone to wash the awful flavour from his mouth.

Gert positively quivered in withheld laughter, eyes shut and parchment held in front of her mouth so Lawrence couldn't see her wide grin. It took a few moments for her to regain her composure, and by that time Snape had finished his scone while Lawrence looked as if he wished to sink into the floor.

"I'm so sorry Pastor, but this potion you have listed; a fifth year should be able to brew it!" Gert exclaimed, taking a deep breath to keep her laughter in check.

"I see," said Lawrence, finally looking up from his lap. "I am a lost cause with potions, you know," he added, a self-deprecating smile gracing his lips

Snape surprisingly felt a little well of pity spring into his heart at his friend's plight. Despite the humour of the situation, he knew he would not have liked to be the butt of such teasing and sensed that, despite his good-natured tolerance, Lawrence clearly felt embarrassed and possibly resentful at being made fun of.

So he decided to rescue him.

"If you would just give him the ingredients, I could brew the potion for him, as I will be staying at the church for at least a week," he said, drawing Gert's twinkling eyes back to himself.

"All right," said Gert, flashing an apologetic smile at Lawrence. "It's nice that someone can help him out, since I rarely brew any more these days." She suddenly winked at Severus, who nearly choked on his tea. "Pastor Beckett needs all the help he can get when it comes to potion brewing."

"Pastor Beckett would like to remind you that he is still in the room," said Lawrence mildly. "He would also like to remind Severus to ask Gert for a healing potion for his blisters."

Gert and Severus rolled their eyes in tandem. The apothecary then turned to Snape, a business-like expression on her face. "Come with me, please," she said, a faint blush tingeing her plump cheeks.

"Excuse me?" said Snape, a little taken aback at her sudden formality. If anything, her blush deepened.

"I need to see the blisters if I am to know which healing potion to give you," she said, her voice suddenly very soft and quiet.

Snape felt his face flush at that statement. "Ah," he said, then shut his mouth when he could think of nothing else to say. "Right." He stiffly rose from the table, carefully not glancing at Lawrence, who had snorted at Gert's proclamation and who he imagined must be grinning like an idiot. Again.

"Don't do anything you don't want to confess to me later!" he called out in a sing-song voice as the two mechanically walked into the adjacent room. Severus just barely resisted the urge to make a rude gesture at Lawrence as he stepped beyond the door jamb. After all, flipping off a member of the clergy might just earn him a Holy Lightning Bolt of Divine Judgment, and he didn't really feel like getting fried until he had this Christian business figured out.

At least, that's the reason he gave himself.

As he stepped into the next room, that line of thought died off abruptly as he noted his surroundings. Bookshelves lined most of the wall space, but instead of books or curios, each shelf contained glass bottles of herbs, ingredients, and a myriad of different potions for all sorts of maladies and problems. Against one wall sat a worktable, complete with brewing equipment and a medium-sized pewter cauldron. It looked like it hadn't been used in quite a while, as the layer of dust lining its rim proclaimed. A set of scales, different sized knives, and a beautiful collection of blue crystal bottles completed the ensemble rather nicely.

"Do you like my lab?" asked Gert, who had noticed his gaze wandering around the room. "It was my mother's," she added, a touch of pride in her voice.

Snape didn't grudge her for it. While nothing as extensive as his own lab back at Hogwarts, it was a lab to be proud of, and he told her so.

"Thank you," she said, blushing again as she took out her wand from a pocket in her apron and transfigured an empty bucket into a chair. "Now, if you'll just remove your shirt, I'll take a look at the blisters. Where did they come from, anyway?" she asked as she turned around to fiddle with a few bottles of potions ingredients on the nearest shelf. She grabbed a few and placed them on the worktable.

"Lawrence," said Snape as he removed his cloak and carefully navigated his way out of the turtleneck. He hissed as the material caught on a blister and popped it, squeezing his eyes shut as the clear amber liquid slowly oozed from the broken skin.

Gert turned back around at his hiss of pain and assisted him in getting out of the turtleneck. She conjured a warm cloth out of thin air and carefully dabbed at his skin. "Say no more," she said, studiously not looking at his face. "That man has blown himself up so many times and come to me with so many different problems that I don't bother to ask anymore."

Snape felt self-conscious as the woman continued poking about his bare, thin torso and clenched his hands in his lap to keep from shoving her away. What seemed like hours later, she got up and went to her lab to analyze the sample on the cloth. Minutes passed before she nodded her head decisively and, after running a finger along the labels on the shelves, selected a bottle.

"This should do the trick," she said, turning back to Snape and handing him a dark-green potion. Gingerly he took it from her, careful not to drop it while absently noting its viscosity and weight. "Drink it all, and the blisters should heal within the next five minutes."

Snape nodded mutely and pried the cork out of the neck of the bottle. He held it up to his nose and gave a tentative sniff, catching the faint scent of pine and liquorice. With a final glance at Gert, who was watching him, he raised the bottle in a mock 'cheers' and downed the potion.

And very nearly spat it right back out. Only years of working with foul-smelling and equally foul-tasting substances allowed him to keep swallowing the concoction. It tasted somewhere between a rotten egg and rancid meat; not that he'd ever eaten either, but if he had, he expected both to taste the same as the potion. Its only saving grace was the cooling sensation it gave him as it slid down his throat like thick syrup and began to interact with his body.

"Rather foul, isn't it?" asked Gert sympathetically once the drought had been swallowed. Snape could only nod; his tongue felt heavy, as if coated with thick resin. The apothecary tutted to herself, then conjured a cup. "_Aquamenti_," she said, and a thick stream of water gushed out of the tip of her wand to fill the cup. She handed it to Severus, who fairly snatched it from her hands and gulped it down.

"Thank you," he rasped once he had drunk the cup's contents. "I confess I've never appreciated ice water as much as I do now." He gave her a wry grin, which she returned.

"You're welcome. Oh! Look, the blisters are healing."

Snape looked down at his torso just as a peculiar sensation came over him; something akin to the feeling one had when a limb that had fallen asleep began to awaken. He watched in morbid fascination as his skin _rippled_ and the blisters began to sink into it. The Potions Master could also feel the blisters on his thighs begin to fade.

The entire process look less than thirty seconds. Once complete, Gert blushed and left the room, telling him to collect the potions ingredients and saying that she ought to look in on Pastor Beckett; she'd been a terribly rude hostess, after all. Snape let her go without comment, grateful not to have an audience as he redressed. After fixing his cloak securely in place he gathered up the ingredients, shrunk them, and stuck them in his trouser pocket.

He then exited the room and ran right into Gert, who was dabbing at tear-filled eyes with a periwinkle blue handkerchief. Wondering just what had upset her Snape glanced over her shoulder.

Lawrence was sitting cross-legged on the floor, both of Gert's children sitting beside him and listening raptly as he told them a story. "King Saul said to David, 'You can't defeat Goliath; you're only a boy!' Do you know what David told King Saul?" The children shook their heads. "David told the king, 'Your servant has protected his father's sheep from both lions and bears. This great warrior Goliath is just like them, for he has defied the armies of the Living God. The same God who saved me from the lions and bears will save me from Goliath too.'"

"How did he beat him?" interrupted Malcolm excitedly. His sister nudged him without taking her eyes from the pastor.

"Shush, and he'll tell you," she said. Malcolm made a face at her, but Lawrence just smiled.

"Well, he took five smooth stones from a stream, put them in the pouch of his shepherd's bag, and went out to Goliath," he continued on. "Goliath made fun of him, but David ignored him. When the giant man attacked David, David took one of the stones from his pouch and slung it at Goliath! It hit Goliath and sank into his forehead, and so David, a young man, defeated the evil giant." Both children smiled at each other, and then at Lawrence.

Suddenly Gert sniffled loudly, and the trio on the floor glanced in her direction. The two children instantly sprung up, looks of concern on their small faces. "Mum! Are you okay?" Marion asked as Lawrence rose as well, giving Severus a smile.

Gert nodded her head, wiping at her face with the handkerchief and giving her children a watery smile. "Of course, dears," she said. "Just…oh, never mind. Come here and give Mum a hug." Both children immediately ran to their mother, burying their faces in her blue daisy apron.

Severus slowly made his way into the main room to stand next to Lawrence, who was giving Gert and her children a kind smile. Abruptly a look of sadness crossed the pastor's face, but it vanished so quickly Severus wondered if he had imagined it, but knew in his heart he hadn't.

"Thank you, Pastor Beckett," said Gert, still holding on to both children, who by now were becoming restless.

"Mum! You can let go now," they chorused, squirming in her grasp. Gert eased her grip and they sprang away, but not too far.

"I'm sorry I've kept you so long; I'm certain you have other things to do than spend the day here," said the apothecary. "I'll see you to the door."

Lawrence smiled and, after a fleeting glance at Severus, both men gave Gert a little bow. Predictably, she blushed and gave them a shy smile. "Thank you for your hospitality, madam," said Snape formally, managing to summon a little half-smirk—his best excuse for a smile he could conjure.

"Oh, don't mention it," said Gert with a small giggle. "Malcolm, Marion, tell Pastor Beckett and Mr. Snape goodbye."

Both children grinned and, before Severus could protest, rushed over and enveloped him in a hug. "Bye Mister Snape!" they chorused before pouncing on Lawrence. "Bye Pastor Beckett!"

"Goodbye, children," said Lawrence, taking out his wand and conjuring them each a lollipop. They gasped in delight and hugged him again before ripping off the paper coverings and shoving the candies into their mouths.

Two pairs of eyes then turned expectantly to Snape, who froze for a moment, wondering exactly what to conjure them. He had no idea what young children liked! His hesitation seemed to sadden them, and suddenly feeling rather guilty, the cranky Potions Master drew his wand and conjured them each a little stuffed dragon.

Both children squealed in delight and snatched the toys out of the air, giving Snape yet another hug and then rushing over to their mother to show her their treats. Gert looked near tears again, though she did give the lollipops a slightly disapproving look as she waved at the two men, who bowed once again before leaving the house and closing the door behind them.

"Ugh," said Snape when they had walked twenty paces from the house. "I feel like their favourite uncle now." He made a face, disgusted at how nauseatingly _nice_ he had just been, and yet enjoying it at the same time.

Just a little bit, though. A teeny, tiny little bit.

Lawrence chuckled. "You probably _are_ their favourite uncle now," he said. "If not their favourite person."

"No, that would be you. Children adore adults who tell them stories and give them candy."

"Children also adore adults who conjure them stuffed toys, you know."

Snape waved his hand dismissively. "That may be, but I suspect they liked you more. I…am not good with children. Of any age."

They passed the park where Severus had encountered the bitter old man the day before. All the benches were empty, but swarms of birds still pecked at the ground as if hoping to find something left behind from yesterday.

"Children can be the most understanding, non-judgmental people in the world," said Lawrence, running his hand along the bark of a thick tree, its leaves just turning red and gold and orange. "I adore them, myself. Their precious innocence is very refreshing to me."

"They can also be the cruellest people in the world," said Snape quietly and without thinking. Immediately he regretted it, knowing Lawrence would latch onto it and turn it their conversation into another Discussion of Snape's Many Issues.

To his immense surprise, Lawrence said nothing immediately. The two men walked in silence down a tree-lined path, a cool breeze nipping at their exposed skin on faces and hands and sending showers of autumn-coloured leaves swirling intermittently around them.

"I sense a great deal of pain, probably stemming from your experiences with Black. Do you want to talk about it?" the pastor asked a minute or so later in an unpressing tone.

Snape shook his head mutely. He stuffed his hands into his slacks pockets, clutching at the material as the garment began to sag off of his waist.

Lawrence nodded, looking a little disappointed but not pushing the issue. Snape silently thanked him for that when he suddenly remembered the questions he wished to ask the pastor.

"I _would_ like to discuss other things with you, though," he said, glancing at his friend. "I have a few questions I would like to ask you."

Lawrence gave him a small smile. "Splendid," he said quietly. "Ask away."

Snape thought for a moment, then decided to ask the question that had been plaguing him since his conversation in the park with the old man. "I met someone yesterday, and in the midst of our conversation, he brought up a valid point. Why does a holy God allow terrible things to happen in the world?"

Lawrence slowed his pace as his smile slipped away. "Ah. You ask a very difficult question, Severus."

Snape stopped short, having never expected such an answer from his friend. "Oh?"

Lawrence sighed and stopped as well, turning to face Snape and motioning toward a bench beneath an almost leafless tree. Snape raised an eyebrow questioningly but followed him. Lawrence sat on the bench, leaning his elbows on his knees and resting his chin on folded hands. Severus slowly sat down beside him. For a few moments silence passed between them, interrupted only by the rustle of leaves in wind and intermittent chirping of birds.

"What I mean is exactly what I said," said the pastor quietly, shifting his gaze from the dark earth in front of him to Severus's eyes. "It is a terribly difficult question to answer mainly because I do not have the answer."

Severus's other eyebrow joined its brother in his hairline. "You're telling me you don't know?" he asked, flabbergasted. "You're a pastor, and you don't know?"

Lawrence nodded, a sad little grin gracing his features. "Exactly." He sighed again and bowed his head. When he looked up again, he wore the expression Severus remembered when he had confessed to him on Saturday. "You see, no one has the answer. Not any pastor or priest in the world, not even the Pope himself. Only God knows."

Severus slumped back against the bench, overwhelmed and quite disappointed. "That's…not really an answer," he mumbled, not looking at Lawrence.

"I know," said Lawrence quietly. Then he turned toward Severus. "There is something that _I_ would like to confess to _you_, Severus."

Snape whipped his head around to gape at the pastor. "What?"

Lawrence gave a brief smile, then schooled his features back to seriousness. "I have suffered from that very question," he said, looking Severus straight in the eye. "I confess that I still do, at times, especially when circumstances become difficult. Did you know my favourite song, a hymn, is 'It is Well with My Soul'?"

"Why?" asked Severus softly, leaning toward his friend in genuine interest.

"The inspiration for many of the world's greatest hymns came from incredibly painful experiences. Take Horatio Spafford, the writer of 'It is Well', for example. After receiving word that his four daughters had drowned in the Atlantic Ocean, he wrote the words to the hymn en route to England to meet his grieving wife. The ship passed over the very waters in which they died." He closed his eyes as though pained, and then looked back at the Potions Master. "_When sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say: it is well, it is well with my soul_."

Severus flopped back against the bench, astonished. How could anyone live through such trauma, and find the strength to carry on? _Why_ would they want to? This Horatio Spafford fellow must have been a Christian; how could he have suffered through losing his children and still believed in God afterward? Hell, why would he even have _wanted_ to?

"Sometimes God tests us, using traumatic circumstances to call our attention to Him, or to test our sincerity of faith," said Lawrence quietly.

Severus scoffed at this. "That doesn't sound like a very loving God!" he exclaimed, clenching his fists angrily.

Slowly, Lawrence nodded. "I know," he whispered. Snape, having never expected a pastor to agree with such a statement, gaped at him in stunned silence. Lawrence looked up at him, eyes filled with uncharacteristic pain and sadness. "Believe me when I say that I know."

Snape snorted, but without his usual venom. "What do you mean by that, exactly?" Lawrence bit his lip and turned his gaze to his shoes, giving a shaky, troubled sigh.

"When my mother died of cancer the year before I graduated from Hogwarts," he said, "I very nearly abandoned my faith. I was extremely close with her, and to lose someone I loved so much hurt me more than I thought possible. I blamed God for allowing her to suffer, and hated Him for taking her away from me. I felt so hurt and betrayed that I turned down the first offer I received to attend a school for aspiring clergy. I left my Christian friends and joined the wrong crowd; that's where I picked up my swearing habit, by the way.

"Two weeks before I graduated, one of my long-lost Christian friends sent me a letter with the words to 'It is Well', another hymn called 'There is a Fountain', and the story of Horatio Spafford. I hated her for sending it to me, and very nearly burned the letter without reading it. But, something held me back, and I read it. After I did, I was overwhelmed with a sense of shame so deep I clearly remember collapsing on the floor and sobbing hysterically for hours, begging God to forgive me and give me another chance.

"The next day another letter arrived, this one from a prestigious religious school. I accepted without hesitation, and, at the risk of sounding cliché, here I am today."

Snape listened to Pastor Beckett's story, his anger slipping away. He remembered the memory he had seen of Lawrence receiving the letter, but had dismissed it as unimportant. Apparently, it had not been. Suddenly Lawrence looked back at him, a small smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

"And to complete the sermon, I _cannot_ explain why God allows bad things to happen; but I _can_ give you my own theory. It is my firm belief that God allows bad things to happen to people in order to build their character. And as for thinking of God as not being a God of love—a thought that even I contend with from time to time, after having witnessed the myriad evils in the world— well, the ultimate proof of God's love was His willingness to send his son to die on the cross for all mankind, even those who scorned him, and continue to scorn him."

"I see," said the Potions Master slowly. Lawrence closed his eyes and gave a self-deprecating shake of his head.

"I'm sorry, Severus; I think I've just overwhelmed you with a long-winded answer to a very short question, and an answer filled with assurances that you, as a non-Christian, might not find very reassuring," he said. "Forgive me?"

Snape nodded quickly. "Of course," he said, then gave the older wizard a wry smile. "Besides, long-winded seems to be your style."

Lawrence returned the smile, then grimaced and began to stretch. "A bit of advice," he groaned as his spine popped in several places. Snape flinched in sympathy, absently running a hand over his own back. "When you get as old as I am, never sit on a hard bench for long periods of time. Bad for your back, you know. Ouch."

"Duly noted," said Snape, wincing as a final loud 'pop' split the air. "Finished?" he asked a moment later.

"Quite," moaned Lawrence, massaging his back as he levered himself up off of the bench. Severus swiftly rose to help him and earned a good-natured glare from his companion. "I can help myself, sonny," he mock groused.

Snape rolled his eyes. "Oh shut up, old man," he sneered, earning a grin from Lawrence. "Besides, you're only ten years older than me. Not nearly old enough to complain." He dodged a friendly punch from the pastor, who scolded him in a faux-elderly voice to "respect yer elders, young man!" The Potions Master gave a bark of laughter and jogged over to the road, waiting as Lawrence made a show of hobbling over.

"Well sonny, have you any more questions for me?" he asked as he neared the younger wizard and fell in step with him. Snape kicked a pile of autumn-coloured leaves out of his path, watching as the red and yellow shapes took flight in the strengthening breeze.

"Just one, for now," he replied, hitching up his pants.

"Splendid," said Lawrence happily. "Ask away."

"How far is it to that bloody tailor?"

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A/N: Hello, everyone! I hope you liked the latest instalment of Trading My Sorrows. (looks hopeful) It is a bit longer than most other chapters, but I hope you all don't mind.

The hymns mentioned are all real, and the story Pastor Beckett told Severus about Horatio Spafford is true. I would like to thank my _Selah: Greatest Hymns _CD for the story, and for inspiring me this chapter with excellent hymns and beautiful music. : )

Thanks for reading and bearing with! Have a happy Christmas (or whatever else it is that you celebrate…) And maybe give me a Christmas present of a review? (gives puppy dog eyes)

Cheers,

Ballad


	9. Chapter 9: The Potion's Master's

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad

Genre: Drama/Spiritual  
Pairings: None so far  
Timeline: AU fifth year, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin  
Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )

A/N: I'M SO SORRY THIS IS OUT SO LATE! Also, thanks so much for the reviews for last chapter! Each one brightened my day. I'd also like to thank those of you who pointed out to me that free will is also a reason why bad things happen in the world. I really feel like a fool for having forgotten that one. : ) Thanks much, guys::gives hugs:: I hope to rectify that little omission eventually, since the concept is very important. Thanks to all for your patience, and understanding that this story certainly won't be perfect. : )

Enough blabbing! Thanks to Ominous Voices, my very patient and super-angelic beta! And now, to the fic! ; D

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Chapter 9: The Potions Master's New Clothes

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I keep trying to find a life  
On my own, apart from You  
I am the king of excuses  
I've got one for every selfish thing I do  
What's going on inside of me?  
I despise my own behaviour  
This only serves to confirm my suspicions  
That I'm still a man in need of a Saviour.

_In the Light_, 1991 Sparrow Song/Andi Beat Goes On (Admin. by EMI Christian Music Publishing) (BMI) All rights reserved.

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"_Well laddie, have you any more questions for me?" he asked as he neared the younger wizard and fell in step with him. Snape kicked a pile of autumn-coloured leaves out of his path, watching as the red and yellow shapes took flight in the strengthening breeze._

"_Just one, for now," he replied, hitching up his pants. _

"_Splendid," said Lawrence happily. "Ask away."_

"_How far is it to that bloody tailor?"_

Lawrence chuckled at that. "Actually, it's just a few minutes' walk down the path. Do you think you can walk that far?" he added teasingly.

Snape sneered at the pastor and shoved his hands into his pockets, attempting to hold his trousers up without looking like a fool in the process. "I can if you can, old man," he said. Lawrence smiled back, and the duo continued walking down the path, the wind tossing their hair about wildly. About a dozen stone buildings appeared through a clump of trees, but the two men stayed on the main path, walking behind them instead of passing through their midst. Snape kept his hands firmly entrenched in his pockets, absently fingering the bottles of potions ingredients. As his fingers ran along the smooth glass and crystal phials, he realised that he relished the thought of teaching Lawrence how to brew the healing potion he had completely ruined. It was about time he did a bit of teaching instead of so much learning!

"There it is. Let's go inside and get you settled," said Beckett a few minutes later, pointing at something ahead of them. Severus, who had been contemplating whether or not to enter full Potions Master-mode when teaching Lawrence to brew the potion, glanced in the direction he was pointing. A small two-storey building sat atop a small knoll ahead of them, nestled in a grove of both evergreen and deciduous trees. The words "Madam Bradley, Tailor" were written in peeling green paint on an old, faded sign not far from the structure. A few fire-coloured leaves littered the roof and lawn and swirled merrily about in the breeze.

"Come on," said Lawrence, flashing him a smile and setting off up the short flight of rough-hewn stone steps.

Snape watched him go, grunting to himself in exasperation. He couldn't fathom where Beckett got the energy to be so bloody cheerful all of the time, though he suspected part of it came from how much sugar the man consumed. It was a wonder the man didn't have rotten teeth. _Oh well_. _If I can deal with Albus, I can deal with his personality clone. _He huffed and followed after Lawrence.

Dirt and leaves crunched beneath Snape's boot heels as he ascended the stairs. Another chilly gust of wind nipped at his skin, bringing with it the fragrant scent of pine and whipping his hair about his face. Several strands lodged themselves in his mouth. He brushed them away with an irritable shiver and glared at Lawrence, who stood with his hands akimbo as though the cold didn't bother him a bit.

Snape shivered again and grumpily decided that the pastor was simply too stupid to feel cold.

"Exactly what _is_ it about Kilterbury that attracts storms all the bloody time?" he groused as he approached his companion. Ominously dark clouds had replaced the docile ones from earlier that morning. They drifted across the sky in dark grey clumps, blocking out a bit of the sunlight.

Pastor Beckett merely shrugged unhelpfully as he and the Potions Master walked toward the shop's entrance. "It's the northwest Highlands, Severus. Wind and storms are all normal here." He glanced at the sky and frowned a little, his brows knitting together. "Let's go inside before it decides to rain, eh?" he added, increasing his pace and reaching the door first. He held it open for the Potions Master. "After you," he said politely, his smile returning full force. Severus very nearly rolled his eyes – the man was far too eager to please in his opinion – and stepped inside the shop.

And quickly back-pedalled out of it in absolute horror.

"Oof!" exclaimed Lawrence as Snape rammed into him. He felt the pastor grab his shoulders to keep from falling and had to grab the door jamb to stop himself from toppling over too. Perhaps Gert's comment that he looked too thin had some merit to it. "Is something the matter?" asked the older wizard from behind him after both had regained their footing.

"It's pink," said Snape flatly.

Bolts of pink cloth sat in a corner to his left. Shelves next to them sported all sorts of pink lace in various shades. An accessory stand next to the shelves held pink buttons, pink sequins, pink rhinestones, and pink whatever else women liked to adorn clothing with. A rack to his right held pink robes, pink shirts, pink pants, pink jumpers, skirts, and even trousers. Crystal brooches displayed on a pink velvet-lined display case sparkled in the light from the many windows, and a delicate rose scent permeated the entire room.

He just _knew_ he was going to be sick.

He tried to take a step back, but Lawrence clamped down even harder on his shoulders. "You can't judge someone by their favourite colour, you know," he said, steering Snape inside. "It's really not going to kill you."

Severus snorted to vehemently contest that point but let himself be shoved inside anyway. The sooner he entered, the sooner he could get new robes and then leave. Beckett released Snape and wandered over to look out one of the windows, wrinkling his nose at the shelves of lace as he passed them. The Potions Master rubbed his abused shoulders and glared at his friend's back as the pastor crossed his arms and began to hum softly.

Snape leaned against the closed door – the point farthest away from anything pink in nature as he could get – and crossed his arms over his chest moodily. _Where is the bloody tailor_? he thought, tapping his foot impatiently. He glanced around the shop again, noticing a doorway with pink beads strung in front of it in lieu of a door. _She's probably behind those ugly things, watching us fidget with discomfort at being forced to come inside such a feminine shop._

_Well, watching _one_ of us fidget, at least_, he amended sourly, scowling over at the other wizard. Despite his disgusted glance at the lace earlier, Lawrence seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Snape didn't recognize the tune he was humming but suspected that it was a hymn. He looked so peaceful and calm standing there, humming and gazing out at the beautiful Scottish countryside in the midst of its change from summer green to autumn gold.

Snape suddenly felt incredibly jealous of the pastor's peace of mind and calmness of spirit. Those two things had eluded him all of his life: first, at home with his father and the man's fickle, often violent moods; then at school, with the Marauders and their interminable pranks; next, with the Death Eaters and his stint as their Potions expert; and finally, as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix. He sometimes indulged himself in imagining a life free from fear and worry. More often than not, though, he forced himself out of his daydreams with a caustic pessimism that had characterized most of his adult life.

_After all, such things are not meant for people who have done the things I have done_.

And yet…no matter how many times he told himself that, he still couldn't help but want them.

Snape sighed, his earlier irritation fading to melancholic contemplation. If he asked Lawrence from whence his peace of mind came, the man would probably say something akin to "Why, from God, of course." Pastors were wont to say such things, after all. _Especially that one_, thought Snape, smirking inwardly a little. He recalled the bitter old man in the park, railing against Pastor Beckett and how he was always saying that God was a God of love.

The inner smirk faded, though, as the wizard also remembered the pastor's obvious distress earlier at having admitted that he toiled with the very idea at times. Snape could not help but wonder why Lawrence had decided to share such a painful memory with someone he barely knew.

"Severus? Is something the matter?" asked Pastor Beckett mildly, concern lacing his voice. _Speak of the devil_, Snape thought, looking up from the spot on the stone floor he'd been unwittingly staring at for the past moments. The pastor had left his window and now stood a few metres away from Severus, next to the display of crystal brooches.

Snape shrugged and opened his mouth to reply when, from behind the curtain of pink beads hanging in front of a doorway, someone entered the room. He half-expected to see some half-insane twenty-something girl jump out at them, but got quite a surprise instead.

"I apologise for the delay," said the elderly witch in a firm, high-pitched, slightly nasally voice. Long knobbly fingers reached up to adjust circular gold-rimmed spectacles, and light blue eyes peered at the two men. Her wispy white hair was caught up in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, a net of light pink beads fastening it in place. Robes a delicate shade of rose draped her thin body elegantly, and she held a wand in her left hand. "Oh. It's only you, Pastor."

"Hello, Madam Bradley," said Lawrence amiably, crossing the room and proffering his hand in greeting. The elderly witch grasped it for as long as propriety dictated, then let go and turned her gaze onto Severus, who hadn't budged a millimetre from his spot against the door.

"Who's that?" she asked.

"Ah, yes! I'm afraid I didn't introduce my friend, Mr. Severus Snape. My apologies," said Lawrence, giving a self-deprecating chuckle and gesturing needlessly in Snape's direction, as the old woman already had him pinned under her blue-eyed scrutiny.

"Good morning," said Severus stiffly, feeling a bit uncomfortable as her eyes slowly travelled up and down his lanky form. Her eyes met his, and after reflexively strengthening the shields on his mind, he met her gaze squarely.

She harrumphed. "I expect you're here to get new clothing? Those are awfully large on you." She turned her intimidating gaze back onto the older wizard. "One or two sets?" she practically barked, waving her wand. A moment later a sheet of parchment and a self-inking quill whizzed into the room, floating to a stop in front of the elderly tailor.

"Two, please," said Pastor Beckett. Snape huffed a little at that, caught yet again between feeling embarrassed and grateful at Lawrence's generosity. He didn't say anything, though, knowing it would do no good. If Beckett was hell-bent on buying Snape clothing, who was he to argue? He'd just find a way to pay the infuriatingly helpful pastor back later and settle the debt in true Slytherin fashion.

Madam Bradley harrumphed and wrote the number down. "Colour?" she asked, glancing up over the top of the parchment.

Lawrence glanced questioningly over at Snape, who lifted an eyebrow and gave him a what-do-you-think? look. The pastor rolled his eyes and turned back to the witch. "Both black, please," he said politely, then mouthed 'how incredibly boring!' at Severus as she wrote the colour down and scribbled a bit more.

"You total is 10 galleons, Pastor," she said briskly a moment later, fixing the older wizard with an expectant gaze. Snape couldn't help but feel relieved at the price. He had expected something much higher, in the range of at least 25 galleons. Briefly he wondered if the woman was giving Lawrence a discount, but a second glance at her hawk-like expression as Lawrence dug out a small sack from his pocket and counted out the coins into her waiting hands disabused him of the idea.

"Wait here," she ordered once all ten galleons had been counted out and given to her. Beckett nodded meekly as she left the room in a flurry of pink robes.

Snape glanced over at the pastor, eyebrows raised high. "Is she always like this with customers or is it just my lucky day?" he drawled.

Lawrence gave a small smile. "Always," he said, twisting the money bag into a little ball and stuffing it back into his trouser pocket. "Ah well." He then turned and faced Severus, who could tell the man was dying to ask him what was wrong and then help Snape fix it. _He must have been a mind healer in a past life. _To his credit the pastor didn't say anything, just made himself comfortable leaning against a sturdy, wooden shelf stacked with pink bolts of cloth.

Snape shrugged again and sighed, thinking that he might as well spit it out and get it over with. "I was just thinking about what you told me in the park," he replied as nonchalantly as possible. Inside he thought, _Oh, I was just sitting here, very jealous of your peace of mind and wanting to ask you where it came from, but knowing what you would say and not liking the answer because at the moment it doesn't seem possible for someone like me to be forgiven, even though earlier you said I could_.

To his surprise, Lawrence flushed slightly and fiddled with his glasses. "Were you really?" he asked, then sighed. "I'm afraid I overwhelmed you with a great deal of theological speculation, and even then did not present all aspects and viewpoints." He looked up and gave Snape a self-deprecating smile. "I apologise for my complete lack of good judgement."

Snape had stopped listening the moment he mentioned other 'aspects and viewpoints.' "Do you mean to tell me that there are _more_ reasons why God allows suffering in the world?" he asked incredulously, raising both eyebrows slightly.

Pastor Beckett nodded, now looking very sheepish indeed. "Yes. Actually I should have told them to you first and saved the others for later, since you might understand them much better." He blinked. "Then again, perhaps not, considering –"

"Would Mr. Snape come here please!" barked Madam Bradley as she re-entered the room, the beads clicking against each other as she passed through the curtain. A measuring tape, parchment, quill, and a small round wooden stool floated behind her. She flicked her wand once, and the stool obediently drifted in Snape's direction, falling to the stone floor with a heavy _thunk_. Then, her eyes never leaving Snape's, she pointed at the stool silently.

He scowled at her, feeling very much like a small child ordered around by a nasty old aunt, but reluctantly obeyed and mounted the stool. The tailor then Summoned her measuring tape and began to measure Snape's shoulder width, waist, hips, and leg and arm length. The self-inking quill scratched against the parchment, recording the measurements. She harrumphed when finished, told Snape he could get off of the stool (an order to which he gladly complied), then magicked her things back behind her. "Wait here," she ordered again, disappearing through the pink bead curtain once more. Her entourage of inanimate objects followed in her wake.

Severus watched her go, liking the old crone less each time she reappeared. He hitched up his pants and returned to his position in front of the door and glanced at Lawrence, who seemed to find the brooch display utterly fascinating. "So. What are these other 'aspects and viewpoints' you mentioned?" he asked grumpily, his irritation at the tailor needing to manifest itself somehow and choosing to do so in his voice.

Lawrence looked up from perusing the brooches, holding one gently in his hand. From Severus's viewpoint he couldn't quite make it out, but it looked like a bird of some sort. "I would rather not discuss it here," he replied mildly, ignoring Snape's gruff tone. "Later."

The Potions Master grunted. "That's what you said last night when I asked you to explain more about holy magic," he said, crossing his arms and trying to convince himself that he did not sound like a whiny child.

"Did I now?" asked the pastor, blinking. "I thought I mentioned that I had some books you could borrow."

"You mentioned that as well."

Lawrence gave him a little smile. "Then I suggest that when we get back to the church, you read some of them. They know much more about holy magic than I do. I'm certainly nowhere near an expert, you know."

Snape gave Beckett a pointed stare. "Oh, no. When we get back to the church, _you_ are having a Potions lesson," he said silkily, smirking as his words wiped the smile clean off the pastor's face and replaced it with a look of pure horror.

"I thought we'd established that I am dangerously incompetent at Potions?" he said, eyes wide and brooch completely forgotten.

"Do you want gold or silver buttons on your robes?" Madam Bradley asked briskly, suddenly poking her head through the curtain and glaring into the main room. "Put that down!" she snapped at Beckett, who jumped and immediately placed the brooch back onto the display, eyes still wide at Snape's declaration of a Potions lesson. Snape wondered how she even saw the glass object in his hand to begin with.

"Silver," he snapped, meeting her glare with his best classroom sneer. They both glowered defiantly at each other for a few moments before the witch harrumphed and disappeared back through the bead curtain. Snape lifted his chin in triumph and then glanced back at Beckett, who had relocated to an empty space of wall and was leaning against it.

"You seem to be forgetting that I am a Potions Master," he said to him. "If I am there to help you rectify errors in brewing, I'm sure you will brew the potion correctly."

Lawrence gave him a very dubious look. "I'm sure you can fix brewing errors, Severus," he said, "but you _can't_ fix 'stupid.'"

Severus raised a slender eyebrow at that proclamation. "Indeed," he said dryly. "You also seem to forget that I have been teaching Potions to idiot adolescents for over ten years. I have dealt with problems similar to yours before. I have one such problem in my fifth-year class right now, as a matter of fact," he added, suddenly remembering that he had fifth-year Potions on Mondays in the afternoon. _Ye gods. Thankfully I'm here and not there,_ he thought sardonically. He ignored the niggling feeling of guilt that said he ought to be in his classroom instead of in a tailor's shop.

Beckett still looked unconvinced, but appeared to be warming to the idea. "Really? How exactly do you help students who routinely blow up their cauldrons?" he asked, straightening from leaning against the wall.

Snape opened his mouth to answer, but realised that he didn't strictly _help _Longbottom; it would be more accurate to say he yelled at him and derided the boy's every effort. He liked to think Longbottom brought it upon himself – after all, one simple act of stupidity in Potions could get a person killed – but suspected the 'scorn and sneer' technique probably would not work very well on Lawrence.

"Your clothing is ready," said Madam Bradley, sparing Snape from having to make up an answer. "Come back here and choose one set to change in to, and I'll put the other in a bag." She then fixed Beckett with a stern gaze. "Touch nothing," she said as though talking to a particularly naughty child.

He held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Of course," he said meekly, giving her a small, embarrassed smile. She harrumphed and made a sharp gesture at Severus, biding him come. The tailor then disappeared back through the beads, fully expecting him to follow on her heels.

Snape snorted in absolute disbelief. "It's a miracle she has any customers at all, if the way she treats us serves as a general indicator of her usual hospitality," he sniffed.

Lawrence shrugged and leaned against his little section of the wall, the light from the window shining on his dark brown hair. "She's not very fond of Englishmen or anyone with a drop of English blood, you know," he said, stuffing his hands in his trouser pockets and giving Severus a quirky half-smile. "It's as if she can smell it running through our veins."

"I thought you were Scottish."

"Only half," the pastor replied, sighing as though this was the world's biggest tragedy.

"If you would, Mr. Snape," came an annoyed, nasally voice from the other side of the beads.

"In a moment," he snapped, glaring crossly at the curtain and hoping she could see his less-than-pleasant expression. Lawrence could be a doormat and let her treat him disrespectfully, but Snape sure as hell was NOT putting up with it.

He then crossed the short distance to where his friend stood, digging the ingredients out of his pockets as he walked. "Here," he said, shoving them into Lawrence's hands. "Don't you dare drop them to get out of your Potions lesson," he added, gazing down his hooked nose at the shorter man.

"I wouldn't dream of it," said Beckett angelically, shoving the bottles into his own pockets. Snape gave him one last pointed stare before striding across the room and forcing himself to walk through the pink bead curtain. He absently brushed off his turtle neck as though the curtain had soiled it and took a quick look around the new room.

Columns of fabric shelves lined the walls on three sides, each bolt of cloth snug in its own little cubby. An entire wall had been devoted to tartan of all kinds, including, Snape noticed with disgust, pink tartan. The old woman was fairly obsessed, it seemed. A small desk sat in front of one of the shelves, covered in needles, pins, thread, a measuring tape, several stacks of parchments, and a stand of self-inking quills.

One of the large shelves suddenly opened inward and Madam Bradley entered the room. The tailor harrumphed when she saw Severus and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "about time." The Potions Master levelled her with his best classroom glare, but she merely shrugged and conjured a brown paper bag with a swish of her wand.

"Your robes are in the room behind me. You can change in there," she said, pointing a gnarled finger needlessly over her shoulder. "Tap the shelf once with your wand to close it, and twice to open it. _Do not go up the stairs_." She gave him a sharp look and then shoved her way through the curtain into the main room, no doubt to keep a sharp eye on the other wizard in her shop. Snape watched her go, feeling a little sorry for Lawrence for having to stay in a room alone with the old harpy. His trousers slipped a little off of his hips, reminding him what he was supposed to be doing. With a sigh he squeezed through the little opening between the door-shelf and its neighbour and into the chamber.

A flight of old stone stairs dominated most of the room to his left, and a worktable with two sets of well-cut black shirts, trousers and robes lying on it dominated the right. Three windows above the table allowed whatever sunlight the clouds weren't blocking into the small room. _It's more like a closet than anything_, thought Snape as he took his wand out of his left sleeve and tapped the shelf once. It closed almost soundlessly, creaking a bit as it sealed him off from the rest of the ground floor.

The Potions Master laid the bag and his wand next to the robes, then took off his cloak and extricated himself from the turtleneck, glad to finally be rid of it. The cool morning air stung his skin, and he shivered. Apparently Madam Bradley hadn't heard of heating charms. He quickly slipped on the nearest new black jumper, noting its thick wool texture and snug fit with satisfaction. It would certainly keep him warm, especially in this storm-ridden place. He took off his old trousers and put on the new ones. Hmm. A little too form-fitting for his usual taste, but the robe would solve that problem. He slipped the garment on over his head and did up the seven buttons on the front, absently noting the Celtic knot work decorations on them. _She may be an old harpy, but she does excellent work,_ he thought sardonically.

Snape walked around where he could, revelling in the feeling of pants that actually fit properly. Now that his skin was blister-free, wool felt quite nice against it. Satisfied, he picked his wand up and flicked it at his borrowed clothes and the other new set – it looked much the same as the one he had just donned except that the robe had many more silver buttons down the front, and the pants had a few buttons down the sides near the ankle. The two piles of clothing instantly folded themselves neatly. Severus picked them up and placed them into the bag, putting Lawrence's clothes on top. He then refastened his cloak, picked up the sack and tapped the shelf twice with his wand. It creaked and groaned a bit as it opened into the fabric room.

He heard voices as he walked briskly into the chamber, absently tapping the shelf one more time. He then used his wand to brush the curtain aside instead of walking through it. "…do something about it," said Madam Bradley snapped as he stepped into the main room, slipping his wand back up his left sleeve. The rose scent assaulted his nostrils as he re-entered, making him scowl in displeasure. Apparently it only haunted the front room, as the others had not smelled that way at all.

The scene before him, however, made him smirk. The elderly tailor had backed Pastor Beckett into the corner by the door (or he'd backed into it himself to get away from her, one or the other). "I will see what I can do," he said politely, giving her a nervous smile and fiddling with his glasses. She harrumphed and opened her mouth to say something else, but at that moment Lawrence saw Snape and a look of pure delight crossed his face. "Severus!" he exclaimed, relief flooding his voice. "How do you like your new robes?"

"They are fine," said Snape neutrally. Madam Bradley whipped her white head around to glare at him, as if looking to see whether or not he meant it as a compliment. He just raised an eyebrow at her and sidestepped around her frail body, joining Lawrence by the door. "But I am afraid that we have an appointment to keep elsewhere, so if you will excuse us…" he trailed off, flashing the other man a pointed look.

Beckett got the gist immediately. He turned and gave Madam Bradley a slight bow, then proffered his hand. "Thank you for your hospitality," he said graciously as she snatched at his hand, shook it a few times, and then let go.

"Hmph. Good day to you," the old woman replied, spinning on her heel and marching back through the pink bead curtain. The strands clicked against each other and swayed for a bit before straightening out once again.

Beckett gave a 'ces't la vie' shrug and then opened the door for Severus, who couldn't quite complain this time as he had a bag of clothing in his arms. As the two men left the tailor's shop, Snape noted that the sky had darkened quite a bit and the wind had picked up a great deal to match. It didn't sting his skin as it did before, though, a fact for which he was grateful.

"Exactly what 'hospitality' did she show us?" he groused as they descended the stone steps and walked down the dirt path back toward the church.

"I just said it to be polite," said Lawrence patiently, holding a hand over his eyes to protect them from the dirt swirling about.

"Why? She did not deserve such courtesy!" said Snape, adopting the same stance after a bit of grit got into his eye. He hissed as he dug it out with a potion-stained fingernail and blinked a few times.

Beckett shrugged and gave Snape a little grin. "Well, as my mother used to say, 'Yer only here a wee while – so be nice,'" he said, affecting an even heavier Scottish accent than his usual brogue.

Snape returned the little grin with a little sneer. "One of these days that niceness of yours is going to – ack!" he exclaimed as something suddenly landed on his right shoulder. He caught sight of scraggly dark grey feathers before the bird began viciously biting his ear. "Argh! Get off of me, you bloody chicken!" Snape cursed, swiping at what he knew was Lawrence's mangy owl.

"Thaddeus! Come here, you silly creature!" exclaimed Beckett from somewhere to his left. The owl gave Snape one last bite and then took off, hooting angrily at him before circling about and landing on Lawrence's left shoulder. It shifted its bulk about to gain balance in the strengthening wind, giving Snape a yellow-eyed glare during the entire process.

The Potions Master glared back, shifting his clothing bag to his left hand and reaching up to gingerly touch his bitten ear. His fingertips came away wet with blood.

"My deepest apologies, Severus!" said Beckett, reaching up and stroking the owl's feathers soothingly. It hooted happily and began to preen the pastor's hair. "He's usually a very good-natured owl, you know. Here, let me," he added as Snape made to take out his wand and heal the bite on his ear.

Snape snorted but let the other wizard do as he wished, since it was his bloody bird that made the small wound to begin with. Beckett withdrew his own wand, came to stand next to Snape, and then whispered a spell, tapping Snape's hurt ear with the tip. The Potions Master felt a tingling sensation as the skin knit back together, then reached up and wiped away the blood.

"Thank you," he said, just as Thaddeus leaned over and bit him on the nose. "ACK!" he exclaimed again, automatically reaching up with his free hand to hold his nose. He glared into the yellow owl-eyes, wishing like hell he could punch the thing off Lawrence's shoulder and seriously considering using the clothing bag to do so.

"THADDEUS!" snapped Lawrence, giving his familiar a very stern look indeed. "Get back to the church this instant!" The owl hooted and took off from its master's shoulder, giving Severus a very dirty look as if it were Snape's fault the scruffy animal had chosen to bite him. "And no treats for you tonight, either!" Beckett added, pointing a stern finger at the bird as it circled above them. Thaddeus hooted again before taking off in the direction of the church, wobbling a bit in the breeze as it flew off and disappeared behind a clump of deciduous trees, green leaves intermingled with leaves the colour of autumn fire.

"I am so sorry!" said Lawrence remorsefully, turning to Snape and healing the bite on his nose as well. "Did you not give him an owl treat before sending him off with your letter?"

"I didn't notice any in the tower," Snape replied gruffly, wiping away the blood from his nose and wiping it off on a nearby tree trunk.

Lawrence blinked at that. "Really? I usually keep a little dish up there for him…Ah well. That explains his attitude." He gave Snape an apologetic grin. "I truly _am_ sorry."

"So you've said," said Severus, rolling his eyes and shifting the bag of clothing to his right arm. "And you can prove it by brewing the potion more or less perfectly," he added, smirking as the pastor paled slightly.

"If you say so," he said with a little gulp as they continued down the tree-lined path. "I'm warning you right now, though: I am a complete disaster at Potions; you saw what I accidentally did to my bedroom this morning!"

Snape waved his hand dismissively. "That will not happen as long as I am there to watch you and guide you through the brewing process," he said confidently. A thought then came to him, and he gave Beckett a sly, sideways glance. "Besides, if you blow me up, you'll never know if I would have ever become a Christian or not."

Lawrence blinked in surprise. "Ah. Well. When you put it that way…teach me not to blow up my cauldron and guests, O Master of Potions," he said, giving Snape another of his cheeky idiot grins.

Snape smirked at him. "Oh, I shall," he said smugly as they entered the park area. "When I'm through with you, you'll be able to brew that healing potion as well as the average fifth year_."_

He'd find out later how terribly _wrong_ that statement was.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A/N: Hello! I am soooo sooooorrrrryyyy this came out so late! I absolutely had NO free time this quarter at college. This is the very last time I take 17 units, that's for sure. Next quarter I'm up for 12, which is the minimum, so I'll have lots of time to write. : ) … Theoretically…

I'm still not sure I like this chapter – it's completely different from what I had originally written; poor thing's been sliced and patched back together so many times – but it needed to be posted. So, this is a sort of "I'm still alive and so is this fic" sort of chappie.

There will also be some major edits coming up in most of the previous chapters. I feel like an idiot for forgetting that, at the beginning of OoTP, Bellatrix is in Azkaban, not frolicking free all over the UK wreaking havoc as she pleases. So, that is going to change ASAP. Chapter 7 is also going to be a lot different, since I discovered that the kids do in fact have Potions on Mondays during fifth-year. Lol. I need to do more research: )

Anyway, finals are coming up, so wish me luck there. My grandma is also healing from a surgery due to complications from past cases of breast cancer, so prayers for her are appreciated. Spring break is coming up, so for a week I might 1) write or 2) catch up on sleep. Hopefully it's more of 1 and less of 2, eh: )

So…yah, that's pretty much it, really. I hope someone is still interested in reading, despite my 3 month hiatus. I'll try to promise that that won't happen again, but nothing solid. It just might. But I won't ever give up on this story!

I'll shut up now.

Cheers,

Ballad


	10. Chapter 10: Lessons in Potions

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad

Genre: Drama/Spiritual

Pairings: None so far

Timeline: AU fifth year, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin

Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )

A/N: I had this written out before the new book came out, but due to my procrastination did not get it to Ominous Voices, my beta, in time for her to beta it for me before I posted it, so if no one is interested in the fic anymore I certainly would understand. However, for those who have finished the book and still wish to read, just let me know, and I will continue to update.

On another note, I DO know that almost 5 months is an inexcusable amount of time to take to update, so…anyone reading this, I'm so sorry! Please, put away the guns and machetes. :D I just got through taking a research-heavy English class, which means we had (funny enough) a lot of reading and writing and research to do this quarter. As such, writing this took the back burner in lieu of pressing homework assignments, though I worked on it in paragraphs at a time whenever I wasn't so tired of writing in general that I fantasized about chucking the computer out the window. I did get to read the third Harry Potter book in that class, though, so there was SOMETHING good about it.

Anyway, I hope you like the new chapter. Snape gets snarky (something that's honestly been sorely lacking), and that was of course very fun to write (though I had problems making the lesson funny, as my sense of humour seems to have taken a holiday on me…although, this isn't really a humour fic, so I suppose if it's not laugh-out-loud hilarious it's not a bad thing, right? Right?). So. Yeah. Enjoy? Extra special thanks go to my beta Ominous Voices, who has been immensely helpful in answering odd and random questions at odd and random times and has been incredibly patient with me and my procrastinating ways. Merci beaucoup, mon amie!

Chapter 10: Lessons in Potions

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_The fear of the LORD is the beginning of  
__knowledge,  
__but fools despise wisdom and discipline._

_Proverbs 1: 7 (NIV)_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"I wonder what Dumbledore is going to teach us today," Harry said as he, Ron, and Hermione descended the staircase to the dungeons after the morning break and walked toward the Potions classroom. He had enjoyed sitting outside, welcoming the return of rational thought after sitting blankly in Binns's class for an hour and a half, and was now, for once in his life, actually looking forward to Potions instead of dreading it.

Ron, who seemed to be emerging from the Binns-induced stupor even slower than Harry, stifled a yawn and shrugged. "If we're lucky he won't teach us anything," he said fuzzily, earning a _tsk_ from Hermione, who still seemed annoyed at them from breakfast. She didn't say anything else, which made Harry feel grateful. He didn't really need any more lectures on the importance of Potions. He just wanted to have a good lesson and knew that, with Snape absent, the chances of that happening were quite good. Even if Dumbledore continued to refuse to meet Harry's eye, it would be better than Snape glaring at Harry and ridiculing him every chance he got.

They turned a corner and found a group of students mingling about outside the classroom door, separated by house, which seemed to be the norm ever since Snape's disappearance. Draco Malfoy, flanked by his massive henchmen Crabbe and Goyle, sneered disdainfully at Harry as though Harry was something particularly nasty Malfoy had scraped off the bottom of his shoe, but the Slytherin prefect didn't say anything. Harry, wondering if he and the rest of the Slytherins were all too scared to taunt Gryffindors now that Snape wasn't there to back them up, returned the dirty look and leaned against the wall next to Neville and Ron.

"If it takes Snape disappearing to make the Slytherins shut their mouths," he muttered to Ron, careful not to let Hermione hear, "then he should disappear more often."

Ron snickered. "The git should just stay gone; no one misses him." He and Ron both laughed softly to themselves until Hermione glared suspiciously at them as if she knew what they were laughing about.

A few minutes passed and the rest of the class arrived, and Harry was just beginning to wonder when Dumbledore would show up and let them inside when the door slowly creaked open. "Come in," said Dumbledore's voice, floating through the crack between the door and dungeon wall. Harry exchanged glances with Ron and Neville (who looked apprehensive despite the fact that Snape was not there to bully him), then shoved off the wall and joined the group of students filing into the classroom.

Suddenly everyone stopped moving, and a few students even gasped in surprise. Harry, curious as to what had caused the hold-up, shoved past Dean Thomas and looked around, his jaw dropping in astonishment. Someone had painted the drab, grey dungeon walls like flower-covered meadows and had even added a few fake windows, complete with fake sunlight filtering into the room. The ceiling now resembled a blue summer sky, and the floor was covered in short green grass.

The chilly, overcast weather outside made the summertime landscape even more inviting.

The culprit sat in the chair behind Snape's desk, beaming jovially in his cheerful yellow robes and looking extremely satisfied with his handiwork. "Good morning!" Dumbledore said, rising to his feet as the shock of seeing the usually dark and dreary dungeon turned into a sunshiny meadow wore off and the students began filing inside again. Harry sat down at his usual place in the back, convinced that this would be the best Potions lesson he'd ever had in his life now that the dungeon was actually inhabitable.

Ron soon joined him, grinning widely. "This is brilliant!" he laughed as he sat down next to Harry.

"Amazing!" said Hermione, practically squealing in excitement. "I wonder how he did it; it's not paint, obviously, that would have taken hours, so it has to be magic; oh, I wonder if he'll teach me how to do it if I ask him to…" Neville just sat down next to her, gaping wide-eyed in amazement at what usually served as his torture-chamber, while the contents of his dropped book bag spilled unnoticed onto the ground.

The Slytherins, however, did not seem amused in the change of scenery. While the Gryffindors glanced about with wide-eyed awe, the lot of them looked like they had swallowed sour milk. Harry saw Draco Malfoy whispering fiercely with Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Millicent Bullstrode and a gaggle of other Slytherins. They all threw dark looks at the yellow-clad headmaster, who didn't seem to notice the glares sent his way as he informed everyone that he had discovered Professor Snape's notes and intended to follow them to the letter.

"And now let us begin our lesson," he said, picking up a piece of chalk.

Harry groaned loudly, joining in the chorus that met this remark. The venerable wizard merely smiled at the class before turning to the blackboard and writing the instructions for the day's potion in his loopy handwriting.

"This is ridiculous," Harry heard Malfoy mutter to Blaise Zabini as students began rustling through their book bags for ink and parchment.

Harry exchanged grins with Ron as Malfoy ripped a sheet of parchment out of his bag and angrily smacked it onto the table. "I'll bet him and all the Slytherins are cross that Dumbledore's not going to favour them like Snape usually does," Harry said in a low voice, taking out his own note-taking things and starting to copy whatever the headmaster was writing on the board. Ron grinned in agreement.

"Speaking of Snape," he said, nicking a sheet of Harry's parchment, "can you imagine what he would do if he could see this? He'd go nutters!" Harry grinned again, imagining the look of pure outrage and disgust Snape would have on his face if he took one look at his precious dungeon now.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

If Severus Snape could have indeed seen the state of his dungeon, he'd likely have thrown a fit and hexed Dumbledore into kingdom come, headmaster or not. As things stood, he was ready to hex Pastor Beckett instead. Throughout the journey back to the church, the man's usual bubble of enthusiasm had steadily deflated to the point that he quit humming and lapsed into a state of nervous silence. Though Severus honestly enjoyed the quiet, it irked him that Beckett's uneasiness almost certainly arose from either a lack of trust in Snape's abilities or a complete disrespect for the art of potion-making. Why else would he be so anxious about brewing an undoubtedly very simple potion?

That, however, did not annoy him nearly as much as entering Lawrence's room, tossing the sack of clothing and his cloak on the bed, and turning around to find Lawrence shuffling through a stack of papers at his desk instead of ready to begin the lesson. Snape waited for him to finish, but when he didn't quit three seconds later, he grunted impatiently and crossed his arms over his chest.

"What _are_ you doing?" he asked, keen to prove he could impart some amount of potion-brewing knowledge to the more or less self-proclaimed idiot without killing said idiot. It was a great challenge, to be sure, but he would try his best to teach someone with Longbottom's penchant for blowing up cauldrons to correctly brew a potion.

"Looking for the paper I was using this morning," said Lawrence, continuing to shift slowly through the stack of parchments.

Snape frowned and began tapping his foot. "I thought you gave it to Gert."

"No, that was just the ingredients list," said the pastor, placing a handful of papers he'd already examined back on the desk. "We need the parchment with the ingredients _and _procedure written down, but I can't seem – aha!" He pulled one of the parchments from the stack and turned to face Severus, waving it in the air. "Found it!"

Despite Beckett's pleased words, he seemed disappointed at his discovery. Snape noticed and immediately felt his irritation level increase a notch, but instead of commenting on it (as that would get them off topic), he lifted a slender black eyebrow disdainfully at the parchment instead. "And why are we using a piece of paper instead of a book?"

Lawrence flushed and fiddled with his glasses. "Ah, well; you see, at one point it was _in_ a book, but, um –"

"You blew it up." Snape narrowed his eyes at Beckett. "I hope you realise that such a display of blatant incompetence does nothing to inspire my faith in you."

"I didn't blow it up on purpose!" protested Lawrence, holding the paper to his chest defensively. "It was too close to the cauldron, and I didn't think to move it; I hadn't been planning on blowing up the potion, you know. Ah well. It was just a – um, never mind," he broke off, giving Severus a wary glance.

The Potions Master drew himself up to his full height and glared down his hooked nose at Beckett. "I sincerely hope you weren't going to say that it was just a Potions book," he said with a quiet, dangerous edge to his voice, "or else we'd be finding out just how well those wards of yours can protect you."

"Ah. Well. Right. Just transfigure something into a cauldron and we'll get on with the lesson, eh?" said Lawrence with a slightly nervous chuckle. Severus frowned at that as the older man approached the table – carefully out of Snape's immediate vicinity – and placed the parchment to the left of the other equipment.

"What do you mean?" he asked, tapping his arm with his long fingers as Lawrence removed the potions ingredients from his trouser pockets and restored all seven to their proper sizes. "Don't you have another cauldron?"

Beckett looked up from needlessly arranging the bottles across the top of the table. "Didn't I say that this morning?" he asked, confusion colouring his voice. "That I blew my last one up?"

Snape's frown deepened into a small scowl at that. "I thought you meant that it was your fifth attempt at brewing the healing potion," he said, valiantly resisting the temptation to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. An inner voice suggested immediately chucking the entire idea of a Potions lesson out the nearest window and brewing the potion himself, as this seemed to be a bad omen of things to come. His pride, however, refused to entertain the suggestion.

Lawrence shook his head and gave him a sheepish grin. "Ah, no. I meant that it was the fifth cauldron in a depressingly long line of cauldrons I've destroyed in the past two years." He winced as Severus huffed in frustration. "I only ruined the healing potion three times," he added, as though this announcement rectified the entire situation.

Severus grunted. "That's three times too many," he snapped, feeling extraordinarily irritated at the pastor. He knew he couldn't transfigure anything into a cauldron. He did not have particularly strong skills in that branch of magic, and did not especially want to advertise that fact. "And in point of fact, I _cannot_ transfigure something into a cauldron for the precise reason that transfigured cauldrons yield less-potent potions than those mixed in genuine ones." That _was_ true – for the most part – so he didn't have to feel guilty about lying to a pastor in a church (although, to be completely honest, irritation would have completely eclipsed any guilt he might have felt).

"Ah. Well, I suppose the lesson is cancelled then."

Lawrence's relieved tone grated on Snape's nerves. Exactly _what_ did he have against Potions that made the prospect of avoiding having to brew one a cause for celebration? "Let's not rejoice just yet," he said, snorting peevishly and doing a bit of quick thinking. _Where can I possibly get a cauldron out in the middle of nowhere? _he thought, glancing absently down at the ingredients. Suddenly, he recalled Gert's potions laboratory. _The pewter cauldron had dust on it, if I remember correctly_, _and Lawrence told me she doesn't brew all that often any more. She might let us borrow it, since she let us borrow the ingredients_. He smirked and shifted his gaze back onto the pastor, whose bubble of enthusiasm seemed to be inflating hopefully at the thought of getting out of the lesson. "Do you have a fireplace with Floo connection?" Snape asked him nonchalantly.

Lawrence furrowed his brows slightly. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," he said, apparently confused as to how fireplaces figured into the cauldron quandary. "Why?" Severus's smirk deepened as he explained his proposition.

"I suppose that would work," said Lawrence, blinking in surprise once Severus had finished. Then he frowned. "But –"

"– 'But' nothing," said Snape, impatiently shooing the pastor toward the entrance. "I'm sure she will give it to you," he added as Lawrence grudgingly led him to a door on the left of the bedroom.

"Perhaps, but I don't want to presume…"

"Or, perhaps you are simply afraid to do this and are jumping at every excuse to weasel your way out of it," snapped Severus, quite fed up with the other wizard's reluctant attitude. Lawrence flushed slightly – _oh dear, I think I've hit a nerve_, thought Severus remorselessly – but said nothing as he opened the door, allowing Snape to step inside first. The younger wizard did not even bother with feeling annoyed at the gesture this time. If the fool wanted to spend his time acting the part of incorrigible people-pleaser, Severus certainly had no intention of stopping him.

As Severus stepped inside, his eye was immediately drawn to a stone fireplace that dominated the opposite wall. Wooden-framed photographs and various trinkets lined its mantel. Two large windows hung with flowing navy-blue curtains occupied the walls on either side, slate-grey skies visible through the glass, and a couple of wingback armchairs the same colour as the curtains sat before the hearth.

"I probably should have showed you the sitting room earlier. It really is much more inviting than the guestrooms; which are incredibly bare," Lawrence said apologetically as he came inside, closing the door and leaning against it with a sigh. "I really need to work on my hosting skills."

Snape snorted indelicately at that. "Your hosting skills are fine," he said, absently admiring the upright piano standing against the right wall and the three large bookcases lining the left. "It's your Potions skills that need work, and they will never improve unless you quit hovering by the door and go fire-call Gert." He pivoted on his heel and swept across a light-blue rug toward the fireplace to emphasize this point, hoping that Lawrence would get over his hesitancy and accept that the Potions lesson would occur whether he wanted it to or not.

"Really? You think I'm a good host?" asked Beckett, leaving his refuge by the door to hover behind the armchairs instead.

_Eager to please _and_ insecure; what an utterly delightful combination_, Severus thought sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "I would not have said so if I did not think so, now stop trying to change the subject and get over here!"

"Alright, alright!" said Lawrence, finally joining Severus in front of the fireplace. "There's no need to be so touchy." He lifted the lid off a small blue ceramic pot and took out a handful of glittering Floo powder.

Severus snorted. "Just get on with it," he snapped. Lawrence flushed and obeyed, kneeling down in front of the fireplace with Floo powder in hand.

"I still don't think this is a very good idea, you know," he said, looking up at Severus with a troubled expression before poking his head into the fireplace and tossing the powder onto the stack of logs, which burst into emerald green flames. "Number sixteen, Park Way!"

Snape rolled his eyes at the other wizard's nervousness and wandered over to a bookcase to indulge his idle curiosity. _There is _nothing_ to worry about, _he thought moodily, scanning the books,_ and if he's so sure this is a bad idea, then why the hell is he still doing it?_

"You know, I probably should have mentioned the Floo instead when you asked me to borrow an owl on Saturday," said Lawrence from the fireplace, his words muffled. "I forget that Thaddeus doesn't really like going on errands for other people." He made a vexed noise. "Really, I can't remember ever being so absent-minded before…"

"No, I suppose you wouldn't," said Severus, rolling his eyes yet again at the man's stubborn determination to change the subject. He grabbed and opened a random book, hoping a bit of reading would calm him down, and found it full of piano sheet music.

"Hello, Gert!" said Beckett brightly instead of making a comeback. "I hope you're well…yes, fine, thank you…actually, I, um, called because we need your help, again; I'm so sorry to bother you…"

Severus replaced the music book, smirking to himself as Lawrence stammered his way through his request for Gert's cauldron. His gaze swiftly passed over the rest of the volumes – most were either music books or tomes about musical instruments – and since they honestly did not interest him, he ambled over to the next bookcase.

"Really? We can borrow the cauldron? Splendid!" said Lawrence a moment later, with the voice of someone forcing himself to sound happy when he didn't really feel that way at all. "I'll be over in just a minute to collect it." Snape glanced over at the fireplace smugly. _So we are successful, just as I predicted,_ he thought, smirking inwardly. He longed to say 'I told you so,' but thought it a bit immature and so held his tongue. There was room for only one immature adult in the room, after all, and said adult was in front of the fireplace.

Severus instead crossed his arms and leaned imperiously against the bookshelf, watching as Lawrence rose from the floor and paused a moment (probably to reorient himself) before turning around. "I shouldn't be longer than a few minutes," he said, wincing before stepping into the green flames and disappearing.

_But oh! The silence sank like music on my heart!_ Severus thought as Beckett departed, not feeling remorseful at all. The pastor's usual bubbly talkativeness and his new-found reluctance were honestly starting to irritate the Potions Master quite a bit. He turned around to peruse the bookcase he had been leaning against, suspecting that it would take longer than just "a few minutes" to collect the cauldron and impatiently preparing himself for a long wait.

Five minutes later, the fireplace remained pastor-free. Severus scowled at it. _How long does it take to collect a cauldron, thank the woman, and leave? _he speculated, tapping his potion-stained fingernails on one of the wooden ledges. He scanned the books on the third case – most dealt with Scottish clans and tartans (he honestly did not understand _why_ Scots were so obsessed with tartan; it was just glorified plaid in his opinion) – but felt too agitated to continue his inspection. He shoved himself away from the shelf and plopped unceremoniously into the armchair to the left of the fireplace.

He was bouncing his leg in agitation and tapping his fingers on the arms of the chair, wishing that Lawrence would hurry up so they could begin the lesson (and vowing to torture the man if he was purposefully trying to delay it) when he suddenly realised he had no idea what to do.

This revelation, however, might have bothered him more had he not been so completely irritated at his pupil. He'd already decided that if Lawrence did or said one more stupid, incompetent thing, he'd earn himself the dubious honour of experiencing Snape at his classroom best (or worst, depending on whom one asked).

At any rate, if Severus failed to live up to his very self-confident declaration, he could simply blame it on Lawrence and his decided lack of skill, not on his own ability to teach. _Still, it_ would _be rather amazing if I managed to help him brew it correctly_, he mused. Leg still bouncing, he leaned back in the armchair and gazed absently at the ceiling, attempting to devise a lesson plan that, at best, would teach Lawrence to brew the potion correctly, and at worst, would keep them both alive if he ruined it instead.

To his supreme ire, he kept drawing blanks. He simply had no experience actually _teaching_ students with what he liked to call the "Blowitis Uppis" problem. He could think of no other strategy than circling the wayward students like a vulture, snatching ingredients out of their hands when they attempted to add the wrong ones and waving the instructions furiously under their noses, all the while screeching "READ THEM, DAMMIT!"

Said strategy, he reflected, would probably not work well on a man who'd previously shown himself capable of smacking people across the face if they started screaming in his. _Although,_ he mused,_ if memory serves, he seemed even more shocked than me when he slapped me, so perhaps the strategy just might – _

A soft whoosh from the fireplace interrupted his thoughts. Severus quickly lowered his eyes from the ceiling and stopped bouncing his leg, clearing his mind and erecting an exterior of cool, collected calm. Lawrence stumbled out of the fireplace coughing and wiping soot from his shirt and trousers, his arms wrapped around a pewter cauldron. "My apologies; that took longer than I thought," he said sheepishly as the green flames behind him sputtered and vanished.

Severus slowly sat up and fixed him with a pointed stare. "What took you so long?" he groused, levering himself out of the armchair and turning for the exit without waiting for Beckett. "Stop for a chat, did we?"

"Not at all – unless, of course, you count haggling with Gert to let me pay her for the ingredients we borrowed earlier as stopping for a chat."

Snape rolled his eyes as he reached the doorway, feeling that he just might roll them out of his skull if Lawrence kept making stupid comments. "I hope you realise that when _normal_ people borrow things from others, they do not pay for them," he said in a slightly condescending voice as he opened the door and held it open.

"Yes, well, knowing my incompetence at Potions I daresay I'll be using most of the ingredients until I get it right," said Beckett as he passed by. He looked quite put-out at being the one helped instead of the one helping, which made Snape smirk to himself. "And even if I don't use all the ingredients," he added as Severus closed the door and fell into step with him, "I should still pay for the amount that I _do_ use, you know."

Severus shook his head in exasperation as they re-entered Lawrence's room. "All _I_ _know_ is that you are far too generous for your own good," he said flatly, sweeping toward the north end of the table and spinning sharply on his heel to face the other wizard, hoping he looked intimidating enough to scare some sense into the man.

"There are worse things a person can be than too generous, you know," said Lawrence, setting the cauldron on the stand.

"Poor and destitute come to mind."

"So does 'give and it will be given to you.'"

Snape flicked his hand dismissively. "Get to work," he said, not commenting on what was sounded suspiciously like a Bible verse, though it did remind him that the entire lesson hinged on Lawrence brewing the potion correctly for fear of blowing up a potential convert. Severus promptly reminded him, hoping it would put him on his best behaviour. Two could play the manipulation game, after all, especially the Head of Slytherin House, and he doubted he'd ever forgive himself for allowing Beckett to buy him two brand new sets of clothing just because the man looked at him like a kicked puppy.

Instead of taking the reminder to heart and immediately obeying Snape's order, however, Lawrence looked at the ingredients and cauldron as though he were being forced to brew his very own cup of poison hemlock. "I…I don't think I can do this." He glanced at Snape as though half-expecting the ex-spy to attack him for expressing such an opinion.

Severus felt a twinge of pain flare up behind his eyes. "With an attitude like that it would surprise me if you could mix a boil cure potion," he said, crossing his arms over his chest and gazing down his nose at the other man, resolving to at least attempt patience in handling the situation. "Your problem is most likely what many amateurs have trouble with: timing the correct addition of ingredients. If that is the case, I can help you overcome that difficulty. Now add the listed amount of water, start the fire, and get to work."

Lawrence sighed, gave him one last hesitant look, and then, with the air of a man implementing his own execution, drew his wand and filled the cauldron half-way with water and lit a fire on the ring-shaped grate on the stand beneath it. Severus watched him measure the first ingredient – 1 oz. fresh juice of knotgrass – into the measuring glass. He nodded at the inquiring look sent his way, then stepped to the pastor's left side so he could read the parchment and familiarise himself with the procedure. He suspected from the ingredients Gert had given him that the potion was a weak botanical panacea, but wanted to be certain so he could prevent additional unintentional-but-highly-dangerous-Beckett-induced disasters. His black eyes flickered over the printed words, reading:

_Equipment Needed_

_1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)  
1 set of scales, brass  
1 stirring rod or ladle, pewter  
_

After reading that single list, it took every ounce of self-restraint Snape possessed to prevent himself from attacking the infernal idiot standing next to him.

"Stop!" he snapped, cutting his hand sharply in front of the cauldron. Lawrence, who had just added the knotgrass, flinched at the abrupt gesture and nearly dropped the ladle he'd just picked up.

"Have I done something wrong already?" he asked, looking at Severus with a small, self-deprecating smile.

Severus levelled him with an extremely aggravated glare. "Thought you'd not read the instructions before brewing the potion, did you?" he hissed in a tone that would have had Neville Longbottom wetting his pants had he been in his classroom at Hogwarts.

"What do you mean? Of course I read the instructions!" The older wizard furrowed his brows and snatched at the parchment. Snape nimbly kept it out of the shorter man's reach and pinned him with a narrow black glower.

"Then why," he fairly bellowed, completely losing whatever thread of patience he had left, "is your ladle _iron_ instead of _pewter_?"

"What, you mean it actually _matters_ which kind you use?" said Lawrence, left hand still outstretched for the instructions paper.

Snape clenched his fists, grit his teeth, and heartily resisted the urge to snatch the ladle from Lawrence and whack him over the head with it. "Of course it does, you idiot!" he growled, slamming the fist holding the parchment onto the wooden table and very nearly upsetting the cauldron. Lawrence jumped and retracted his hand, taking a step back. "There is absolutely _no_ substitute for the proper equipment! There is likewise _no_ substitute for reading the instructions _all of the way through_ to make sure you understand what you are doing and are doing it correctly!"

His thin chest heaved with anger as he glowered at Beckett (who gaped wide-eyed back at him), dimly considering that this perhaps was not, in fact, a good idea. Anyone who thought he could substitute equipment at his own whim and fancy had to be an imbecile on some level, but yet again his pride refused to call the lesson off on account of student stupidity.

He did, however, decide that despite his original hesitancy to use it, Beckett had just earned himself the scorn-and-sneer technique.

Snape sucked in a deep breath and slowly exhaled, trying to calm himself down without resorting to destroying something (or hexing Lawrence, holy magic ward notwithstanding). He whipped his wand from his sleeve and swished it irritably at the already-ruined potion. The crackling fire and the bubbling liquid both vanished instantly. He then turned his glittering black glare onto Beckett, who, he hoped, was beginning to realise that Snape's ferocious temper was quite real and not just some abstract theory to discuss over tea and biscuits.

"Should I even inquire as to whether or not you have a pewter ladle, or should I just start walking back to the sitting room and expect you to follow me there?" he asked from behind clenched teeth. He couldn't help but morosely wonder if this entire situation wasn't some form of divine punishment for managing to avoid teaching his least favourite class, the fifth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins.

Lawrence gave him a small, nervous smile. "The sitting room, I think," he said, face reddening as he fiddled with his glasses and gestured for Snape to precede him. Snape lingered a second longer to scowl at him – on the off chance he hadn't already figured out that he was an insufferable dunderhead – before pivoting on his heel, flinging open the door, and stomping down the corridor toward the sitting room, robes billowing behind him the entire way.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"If anyone finds themselves in a bit trouble," said Dumbledore after everyone had finished taking notes, collecting ingredients and setting up their cauldrons, "just raise your hand high and I shall happily assist you." His blue gaze fell on Neville, who flushed, before the Headmaster began to stroll around the classroom, patiently answering any questions put to him.

"This is actually sort of fun," said Ron about five minutes later, stirring his simmering potion slowly.

"Yeah," said Harry. "It's nice not having Snape here sneering at us and yelling and taking points." That comment earned him an exasperated look from Hermione, who was predictably already much farther ahead than anyone else. Her potion had already started to glow a rather pretty silver colour.

"I know he's unfair to you, Harry, but he's still a teacher, and you should still respect him no matter how nasty he is," she said, adjusting the flame height with her wand and weighing the next ingredient on a nearby set of scales. She then lowered her voice. "Besides, he may have been injured doing something for…well…you know."

"Yeah, right," said Harry sarcastically, exchanging incredulous looks with Ron, who rolled his eyes. "So I guess you respect him every time he insults you and calls you an insufferable know-it-all, then?" Hermione's face reddened but she didn't say anything else, adding the newly-weighed ingredient to her cauldron and stirring it while reaching for the next bottle.

"Come on, Hermione," said Ron, still stirring his potion even though Harry was pretty sure he should have stopped by now. "Just admit that Snape's a greasy git and having class without him breathing down our necks is brilliant." Hermione just grit her teeth and focused on her potion, ignoring him.

He glanced at Harry for help. Harry had no idea what to say – if his own point about Snape insulting her didn't convince her, then he thought nothing would – but he was spared from saying something when Neville suddenly said, "I'm glad he's not here too."

Harry and Ron both gaped at him, while Hermione exclaimed "Neville!" as though he'd said something incredibly horrible. Neville just flushed and continued stirring his potion, which looked very similar to Ron's, and though that was probably not a very good thing, it was better than what Neville usually managed to do.

"Wait…but I thought…this morning…" said Ron as he added the next ingredient to his cauldron, clearly just as perplexed as Harry.

"I know," said Neville, not quite meeting Harry and Ron's gazes. "But I like him not being here. When he's not here, for some reason I can brew potions better."

"Maybe because he's not sneering at you and bullying you?" said Harry.

"Maybe," said Neville. "But…just because I'm glad he's not here doesn't mean I want him to get hurt or, or die."

"But it's Snape, mate!" said Ron. "Who _doesn't_ want him to fall off a cliff or something, or push him off themselves?" Several Gryffindors around them snickered, but Hermione glared at him.

"_Ron!_ Honestly, what a horrible thing to say!"

"What?"

"Saying that you wish harm or death upon someone else, even someone you dislike, is a very powerful statement," said Dumbledore conversationally as he walked by their workstations. He glanced at Neville's potion and gave him an encouraging smile, but though Harry tried to catch his eye, he moved on to help Dean and Seamus without even glancing at Harry. Harry, unsurprised but stung nevertheless, returned to his potion with a rather large dent in his previously good mood.

He measured the next ingredient– powdered something of whatever –, frowning at Dumbledore's back as the headmaster walked away. Hermione made a satisfied noise and favoured Ron and him with a triumphant look before turning back to her cauldron, lowering the fire and stirring it a few times. It now smelled like lemon and raspberries and glowed softly like moonlight.

Ron looked rather uncomfortable as he stirred his own potion, which didn't look anything like hers and smelled rather nasty. "Are you going to stay mad at us forever or what?" he asked, scowling at the blobby, dark-grey liquid.

Hermione sighed as she stirred her potion a few more times and wafted the scent toward her, sniffing lightly. "Oh, of course not, Ron," she said, absently wiping a bead of sweat from her face. "Just, please try to be a little more sensitive, won't you? You can say some terribly awful things sometimes, you know." Ron made a face and opened his mouth, probably to argue. Harry, tired of their bickering, opened his mouth to tell them both to shut up, but Neville beat them both to it.

"Well, wherever Professor Snape is," he said, "he's probably just as happy he's not here as we are."

Harry stared at him a moment before cottoning on. "Yeah," he said, giving Ron and Hermione a pointed look. "I'll bet he's glad he doesn't have to teach Potions today." It seemed to work. They exchanged glances with each other and then looked at Harry, as though afraid he would snap at them again as he had done earlier in the year.

Ron muttered "Yeah, I guess so," Hermione just nodded, and then both turned back to their own cauldrons. Hermione stirred hers a few more times, sniffed it again and then decided it was finished for now and sat down with a book to wait while it simmered, while Ron muttered foul things under his breath and decided to start his over.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Snape wrenched the bedroom door open and stormed inside, flinging the door so hard it crashed against the opposite wall and bounced back, nearly smacking Lawrence, who had to leap inside to dodge it. He gave Snape an incredulous look, as though wondering why Snape felt it necessary to try and bash him with his own door, but Snape just glared back at him, daring Lawrence to reprimand him and preparing to verbally lacerate him if he did. To his disappointment Beckett kept his mouth shut, flushing and sighing nervously instead as he walked over to the cauldron table like a chastised student who'd just lost fifty points from his House.

"Now that we _finally_ have the proper equipment," said Snape, voice smouldering with anger, "we can begin the lesson." He swept slowly back and forth in front of the table, arms crossed, trying to calm himself down before the seething rage building in his chest erupted and he did something he knew he'd later regret. "This potion is a direct-variation potion." He stopped to glower across the empty cauldron at Lawrence, who was watching Snape pace across the room in the same wary, wide-eyed way one would watch an unpredictable rabid beast. "Can you tell me what a direct-variation potion is?" he asked, sneering, sure the answer would be 'no.'

Lawrence flushed and lifted his hand as though to fiddle with his glasses, but aborted the gesture and crossed his arms over his chest instead. "I can't," he said, staring at the cauldron and newly-borrowed pewter ladle instead of meeting Snape's glare.

"Unsurprising," said Snape, curling his upper lip. Beckett looked up at him from the cauldron, brows knotted, but he didn't say anything. Snape gave him another little sneer before he continued pacing and lecturing. "For your information, a direct-variation potion is one in which the amount of stirring time increases as the amount of ingredients also increases. Most panaceas, like the one you are _trying_ to brew, are also threefold multiples, meaning that every time an ingredient is added the amount of stirring required increases to a multiple of three – for example, stirring the potion three times after adding the first ingredient, six times after the second, and so on."

He stopped pacing and glowered over at Beckett to see if he understood, but to his supreme frustration he found him blinking in confusion and looking thoroughly overwhelmed by the information just given him. "Forgive me, Severus, but, um, why is it important for me to know all of that?" he asked timidly.

_Merlin, __he really wasn't joking when he told me that I can't fix stupid, _thought Snape, raising a slender eyebrow contemptuously at the question. Feeling his irritation level increase yet another notch, he swept over to the table, smacking his hands down on both ends and shoving his snarling face into Beckett's. "It is important that you 'know all of that'," he said, mere centimetres from Beckett's alarmed face, "because it will help you brew the potion – _if_, in spite of your incompetence, you actually manage to remember everything I just said," he added nastily, shoving himself away from the table and crossing his arms again. "Get to work."

Lawrence gaped at him, wide-eyed. "N-now really! That was a bit uncalled for, you –"

"– Was it?" spat Snape, feeling vindictive pleasure at the hints of frustration and fear lacing the other wizard's voice. "Who was it that wanted to use an iron ladle when the instructions specifically required one made of pewter? Who was it that blew up a simple healing potion three times this morning? _Who was it _–?"

"Severus, please stop yelling!" said Lawrence, a pleading expression on his face. Snape longed to continue snarling, but a rational part of his mind not yet annexed by fury recognised that yelling would get him nowhere. He exhaled harshly and glowered at Beckett, who took a deep breath and continued on in a placating voice. "If you think I'm so incompetent – which I obviously am," he added quickly, as Snape had snorted and opened his mouth to say that he did not _think_ so, he _knew_ so, "then why are you making me do this?"

"Possibly because you told me this town depends on you for its potions now that Gert cannot make them as often?" said Snape sarcastically. "I should think you'd like to get better at it." He shot Lawrence a pointed glare, who flushed again.

"Believe me, I do, but…um, I, well…" He trailed off, his gaze sliding away from Snape to rest on the cauldron.

Snape followed his stare and suddenly understood, his lip curling derisively. "If you do not wish to return a twisted heap of metal to Gert instead of a cauldron, then I suggest you brew this potion as if your life depended on it. Now get – to – work!"

To Snape's satisfaction Beckett sighed and finally obeyed, throwing him a troubled, slightly hurt look, as though wondering what had possessed Snape to treat him so harshly instead of with his usual respectful friendliness. Snape snorted to himself and began to pace again. _If he can't put two and two together and figure it out himself, then the fool doesn't deserve to know_, he thought savagely.

He enjoyed a few moments of listening to the soft sound of liquid simmering in the cauldron before Lawrence interrupted. "I thought you said you were going to watch me," he said, voice tinged with uncertainty.

Snape, who had managed to calm his temper somewhat before Lawrence opened his mouth, glared over at him, annoyed once again. "You are an adult, Lawrence. I should think that you can read the parchment, follow the instructions, and at least _try_ to brew the potion correctly without me hanging over your shoulder every step of the way."

"Yes, but…how can you help me fix my mistakes if you aren't watching me make them?"

Snape lifted an eyebrow. "How can I help you fix your mistakes if you aren't making any?" He sneered as Lawrence opened his mouth, blinked, and then shut it again, obviously unable to argue with such logic. "Get to work," he repeated, resuming his pacing with an exasperated shake of his head.

Despite what he'd told Lawrence, Snape kept a hawk-like watch on him as he stirred the potion a half minute after letting the juice of knotgrass simmer and then stood back, waiting for it to boil. Nothing went wrong in the ensuing minutes. Snape did not feel very surprised, as he thought it rather difficult for even the most insufferable dunderhead to botch what was more or less boiling water. He continued to pace back and forth slowly as Lawrence measured out the next ingredient, musing that perhaps use of the wrong equipment had caused most of the problems earlier that morning when a loud BANG temporarily deafened him.

Snape whirled around and practically flew to the table, his temper flaring up once again. He frowned at the cauldron, which was haphazardly spitting light-green sparks everywhere, and then glowered at Lawrence, who was holding the empty measuring glass and the ladle with a horrified look on his face. The stench of burnt potion filled the air, overwhelming the lingering scent of coffee that had wafted about the chamber when they'd first come in.

Snape snatched the instructions paper off the desk, which sported tiny holes where sparks had burned through it. As his eyes flickered over the directions and committed them to memory, he realised what had gone wrong and was suddenly and very forcibly reminded of Longbottom. The thought of the boy and his sheer uselessness in Potions did nothing to brighten his mood. In point of fact, it infuriated him so much it became incredibly difficult to think of reasons why he shouldn't hex the pastor on the spot.

A vein began pulsing in his forehead as Snape slowly turned his seething glare back onto Beckett, convinced that it was not the equipment's fault for the earlier fiasco, but the faulty brain operating said equipment. Lawrence cringed at the murderous look on his face and took a tiny step away from him. "Read the sixth line of the instructions out loud," said Snape, holding out the parchment, his voice quiet with suppressed rage. Lawrence stared at him nervously, brows knotted and lips pursed, then slowly put down the Potions utensils as though fearful sudden movement might provoke Snape into attack.

He gingerly took the parchment, adjusted his glasses, and began to read. "Ahem…As soon as the potion comes to a boil, add 3 oz. juice of dandelion root and lower the fire to medium-low heat." They both glanced at the fire beneath the cauldron, which crackled merrily at the same height as when Lawrence had first started.

"The instructions clearly say to lower the fire, don't they."

"Yes, but, um –"

"– Why, then, did we choose not to lower it?"

"I, well…I didn't understand what it meant by 'medium-low heat'," said Lawrence, jumbling his words together.

"What is so difficult to understand?" snapped Snape, gritting his teeth. Without waiting for Lawrence to answer he whipped his wand from his sleeve and swished it at the flames so that, instead of licking at the bottom of the cauldron, they danced a few millimetres beneath it. "_That_ is medium-low heat." He swished his wand again, returning the fire to its original height, and with a disgusted "_Evanesco!_" he vanished the spark-spitting mess. "Start over, and this time, do it right!"

"But, erm, both fires looked the same to me," said Lawrence, squinting at the flames as he replaced the parchment on the table.

Snape shut his eyes and clenched his fists for a moment, physically trying to bridle his temper. "Just. _Do it_."

"Alright, alright…"

Things did not much improve after that, though they lasted ten minutes and got to step eight before another problem rose bubbling, smoking and hissing from the depths of the cauldron. "You imbecile!" Snape exclaimed, snatching up the instructions parchment as the potion cascaded over the cauldron's rim in light-green waves, dousing the fire and oozing rapidly across the table, threatening to topple the ingredient bottles lining the edge. Yet again, the acrid scent of burnt potion permeated the room.

"I'm sorry!" said Lawrence, wringing his hands around the ladle and watching as Snape, who had luckily had the foresight not to put it away, swished his wand at the sizzling liquid and vanished it before it managed to gush over the table ends and onto the floor.

Snape sucked in an exasperated breath and slowly let it out, making a sound halfway between a grunt and a growl. "You were mixing it far too quickly," he said, replacing the slightly crumpled directions back onto the table.

"But it said to stir rapidly…" said Beckett, clearly abashed at having made a second mistake in only ten minute's time.

"Yes, but not so rapidly you slosh it everywhere!" said Snape, swiping the ladle from him and sweeping in front of the cauldron. Lawrence back-pedalled nearly into the wardrobe to get out of his way. "This," he said, plonking the ladle into the cauldron, "is the _right_ way to do it." He held his lower arm parallel to the ground, bent his wrist at an angle, then adroitly mixed what remained of the botched potion. It hissed and turned an awful shade of brownish-green, but did not explode or overflow again.

Snape turned to Lawrence with a see-wasn't-that-easy look and shoved the ladle back into his hands. He then stepped back and crossed his arms expectantly over his chest. "Well? What are you waiting for?" he snapped when Lawrence just stared at him uncertainly. "Try stirring it the way I showed you!"

Comprehension dawned on the pastor's face, but renewed uncertainty replaced it almost immediately. "But what if it explodes again?" he asked, gazing distrustfully at the cauldron. Snape huffed impatiently.

"It won't, now get to it!"

Lawrence sighed, furrowed his brows at the cauldron, then awkwardly mimicked Snape's position and began stirring.

"You're doing it wrong!" said Snape angrily a second later. Lawrence started and instantly let go of the ladle, letting it fall against the cauldron brim with a dull clang. Snape sighed in frustration and put a hand to his forehead, massaging his temples. "I fail to see what is so difficult about this."

Beckett sighed again as well, sounding almost as frustrated as Snape. "I'm sorry, Severus, but please try to understand! I've been out of school for almost thirty years and was never any good at Potions!"

"I should think you would have at least marginally improved over two years of brewing for these people," said Snape, lowering his hand and staring pointedly at Lawrence.

Lawrence flushed and crossed his arms. "Yes, well, I _have _gotten better since I first started, you know," he said. "But, to be completely honest, if I can I usually buy potions from an apothecary whenever I go out or I volunteer to watch Gert's children so she can brew them instead."

Snape snorted incredulously. "If your abysmal performance thus far is an improvement from your original performance, it's a wonder you're still alive," he sneered. Beckett frowned and opened his mouth, but Snape continued on, overriding whatever he might have said. "I also hope you realise that buying potions and having other people brew them for you is not going to help you develop your own skills."

"Neither are you, since all you've basically done is insult me," said Lawrence, eyes widening in shock and fear the moment the words left his mouth.

Snape glowered fiercely at him, his temper spiking and soaring to new heights at the man's audacity. "How _dare_ you insinuate I haven't been helping you when I've just spent the last few minutes demonstrating proper stirring technique!" he snarled, banging the table with a fist and rattling the ingredients bottles.

Beckett now gaped at him as if Snape were not just an unpredictable rabid beast, but an unpredictable rabid beast with ten roaring, fire-breathing heads and gaping jaws full of bloody, razor-sharp fangs. "I, I'm so sorry, Severus; please forgi –"

"Enough!" said Snape, cutting him off with a sharp gesture. "If you want me to help you, then shut up and listen closely because I am _not_ going to repeat it. Use your wrist when you stir, not your entire arm, and hold the ladle like a quill, not a walking stick! Now get to work!" He vanished the contents of the cauldron and then swept around the table, pacing furiously, completely convinced that the lesson would either end with him murdering Lawrence or Lawrence blowing them both up in his incompetence, whichever came first.

Though the procedure had twenty-one steps, the lesson did not last beyond step nineteen.

Beckett seemed to lose his nerve after he criticised Snape, who felt perversely satisfied at having managed to nettle the usually-tolerant idiot enough to get such a reaction from him. Beckett's hands shook slightly when he handled the ingredient bottles and measuring glass as well as the ladle, slopping potion over the edge a few times and throwing fearful glances at Snape whenever he did, who simply glowered at him and swept silently back and forth across the room.

Lawrence had also developed the annoying habit of throwing furtive, longing glances at the door as though he wanted nothing more than to escape. "Pay attention to the cauldron, not the door!" Snape snapped the fifth time he caught him at it.

"I'm sorry," said Lawrence, tensing and not meeting Snape's eyes.

"Don't apologise, just do it!"

Though he'd yelled at Lawrence, Snape did not particularly mind the glances – he got similar behaviour from students back at Hogwarts longing to leave his dungeon and was quite used to it. He did, however, mind the potentially deadly consequences of looking away from the instructions and, most importantly, not minding the cauldron.

Especially when said consequences included explosions.

Snape was pacing in front of the table, massaging his temples and longing for a shot of Firewhiskey to banish his headache when he noticed that a bitter, acrid stench had replaced the normal herbal scent of the potion. Enraged at yet another botching of the potion, he whipped around to verbally lacerate Lawrence who, despite his apology, had his eyes on the door again and did not notice that the potion had started to gurgle and fume ominously.

Dreading what he knew would happen in only a matter of seconds, Snape bellowed "Get down _now!_" and pitched himself onto the floor, covering his head seconds before the cauldron gave a shuddering rumble and exploded. Potion spewed everywhere, knocking the bottles and the measuring cup off the desk. The bottles, protected by an anti-shattering charm, simply bounced and rolled while the measuring cup hit the floor and shattered in a glass fountain, sending pieces tinkling across the stones.

Once he was sure it would not explode again Snape sprang to his feet, completely indignant. "LAWRENCE!" he roared. "If you had been watching the cauldron this would not have happened, you idiot!"

"But I was!" said Lawrence, rising from his knees – he'd only had time to kneel before the cauldron erupted – and staring miserably at the slightly blackened pewter cauldron, giving a little moan.

"Obviously not!" snapped Snape. He repaired the measuring glass with an irritable "_Reparo_" and floated it back onto the table, ordering Beckett to collect the ingredients bottles (waspishly reminding him how lucky he was they didn't break as well) and clean up the rest of the mess. While he worked Snape snatched up the instructions and read steps seventeen through nineteen again. Once he had he glared at Lawrence over the top of the parchment as he finished cleaning, irate at the man's complete and utter stupidity. "How many times did you stir it?" he asked bitingly, knowing he wouldn't like whatever answer Lawrence gave him.

"I, I didn't, it didn't say to…"

Snape glared up at the ceiling and grit his teeth. "Are you purposefully making mistakes just to annoy the hell out of me?"

"What? No, of course not –!"

"Then _why_ do you insist on making them?" snapped Snape, giving Lawrence a withering look. "The instructions –" he flicked the paper with his free hand – "say to stir the potion _fifteen times_ after adding the Murtlap essence and _before_ adding the powdered moonstone!"

"I, I'm sorry –"

"Stop apologising you fool, it doesn't –"

KABOOM!

Snape, who had the misfortune to be standing next to the cauldron when it exploded a second time, received a face full of hot, viscous, botched potion.

Only the cheerful crackling of the fire interrupted the heavy silence that followed.

Snape stood stock still, glaring straight ahead, teeth clenched, and hands clutching the edges of the table in a death grip because he knew if he let go he'd wrap them around Lawrence's neck and squeeze the last drop of life from him. A sadistic little voice in the back of his head morbidly wondered exactly what the holy magic wards would do to him if he did, in fact, try to kill Lawrence, but, not particularly keen on finding out at the moment, he kept his hands on the table.

Instead he gazed at the smoking ruins of potion and cauldron in outrage as the hot, viscous liquid dripped slowly down his hair and face and the shoulders of his new robes. Slowly he moved his gaze from the cauldron to Beckett, who looked perfectly aghast at having blown up the potion in his guest's face. "Your idiocy," said Snape softly, voice quivering with rage so deep-seated his stomach churned with nausea, "_astounds me_."

Beckett blinked, a look of hurt fleetingly crossing his face before a panic-stricken sheepish grin took its place. "Y-yes, well, m-my particular brand of stupidity is rather s-stubborn, you know," he said, attempting his signature self-deprecating laugh and failing miserably.

The attempt at humour only enraged Snape further, and with an oath he shoved himself away from the table and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "Shut up," he snarled, effectively wiping the terrified grin from Lawrence's face. "You are a complete disgrace to the name of Slytherin House, and I confess myself bewildered that you manage to continue breathing despite the bubble of sheer incompetence that surrounds you!" He paused here, indignantly noting that Lawrence had closed his eyes, balled his hands into fists on the table, and was muttering something rapidly under his breath. He curled his lip derisively and narrowed his eyes to black slits. Ignoring a little voice in the recesses of his mind begging for him stop, he added in the most malevolent tone he could muster, "If you, as a pastor, are any indication to the general intelligence of Christians, then you all must be the most useless, brainless group of fools on Earth, and I have neither the desire nor the inclination to throw in my lot with any of you."

Beckett's eyes snapped open and the look he gave Snape could possibly have frozen the fires of Hell. Snape immediately knew he'd gone too far, but he could hardly call back his damaging words now. "That was entirely uncalled for," Beckett said frigidly, jaw set and eyes almost as narrow as Snape's. "My intelligence, or, as you have made completely clear, my _lack_ of intelligence, has nothing to do with the Church or the rest of its members, you know. It is my fault and my fault alone, and I will thank you to remember that."

Snape, shocked, watched mutely as Lawrence drew his wand, Evanesco'd the botched potion, and met Snape's gaze with a cool expression on his face. "If you want to use the shower, the towels are in the cabinet. After that, you may do as you wish. I, however, have work to do." And with that the pastor Disapparated with a _crack_, leaving Snape alone with an empty cauldron, reeling with anger and a growing, devastating shame.

* * *

A/N: So, this finally gets updated. Once again, I apologize for the lengthy delay – on top of school papers, I had a bout with doubt (er, rhyming unintentional…), a heavy case of writer's block, and a lot of time fleshing out my OCs a little more. Now I need to go back, armed with such knowledge, and rewrite portions of the first chapters, which should be fun, on top of writing Chapter 11 (which I think will get out easier, since I've been fantasizing about moving beyond Chapt. 10 for so long that I started writing down notes for the next chapter even though I hadn't finished 10 yet). 

Thanks to anyone who decides to review, because that means you've read this thing, and haven't just abandoned it for stories whose authors are more predictable in updating and who haven't developed debilitating OCD editing streaks that prevent them from getting anything done! Yay!

Also, if anyone is confused about why they're using a stand for the cauldron, say so in the review and I'll give you the explanation (it was too long to put as an author's note).

So thank you, people still reading, and I hope this chapter doesn't suck as bad as I fear it might – but I need to move on with the fic, so if a not-so-great chapter is the sacrifice for progress, I sincerely apologise for disappointing anyone with a decrease in quality.

Cheers,

Ballad

PS: Snape's thought about "Oh, but the silence" etc. is from Coleridge (I would imagine Snape is well-read, in both magical and Muggle literature, which is my rationalization for using a great quote), while the 'give' quote is from Luke 6: 38.

PPS: Since the new book is coming out soon, this probably won't get updated for a while yet again, since I'm surely going to be reading it (and maybe screaming and crying in denial, depending on the ending). I hope the ending won't upset me so much that I discontinue this; hopefully no matter how the series ends (which is a sad thing in and of itself) I will still continue with this fic. So, happy times to everyone looking forward to reading the new book!

PPPS: As this was written before the new book but posted after, I am naturally aware that some people might not want to continue reading, while some others would. If you would like to see continued updates, please let me know. :)


	11. Chapter 11: Lessons in Life

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad

Genre: Drama/Spiritual  
Pairings: None so far  
Timeline: AU fifth year, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin  
Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )

A/N: There are no words to express how sorry I am that this took another…hmm…four months to get out despite my promises to the contrary, though I can certainly try to create some. : D The only explanations I can offer are: I have a job now (yay), school (as always), and a sudden realisation that I don't know as much about my own faith as once I thought. So this is turning into something of a spiritual journey for me as well as for Snape. It should be interesting. I hope.

But yes, this story WILL continue, come hell or high water. I really can't remember why I thought no one would want to continue reading this after reading DH simply because it is now severely AU. I was (quite pathetically, actually) distraught after the ending for reasons that should by now be obvious (if you haven't read the last book why would you be reading fan fiction?), and I added the new A/Ns at the beginning and end of chapter 10 in the midst of said pathetic distress. So, thanks to the people who reviewed and asked why it couldn't go on just because Snape is now canonly dead. You are perfectly right. It can and will. : )

Anyway, I apologise for being a twat. I shall not abandon this fic, and especially won't abandon Severus, whom I adore and shall buy on Ebay if Rowling ever offers him up for auction. :D Many thanks go out to Ominous Voices, my patient and talented beta. Any mistakes still in existence are mine, not hers.

Chapter 11: Lessons in Life

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"_If your brother sins, rebuke him, and if he repents, forgive him.  
__If he sins against you seven times in a day, and seven times comes back to you and says, 'I repent,' forgive him."_

Luke 17: 3b-4

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_Snape, shocked, watched mutely as Lawrence drew his wand, Evanesco'd the botched potion, and met Snape's gaze with a cool expression on his face. "If you want to use the shower, the towels are in the cabinet. After that, you may do as you wish. I, however, have work to do." And with that the pastor Disapparated with a _crack_, leaving Snape alone with an empty cauldron, reeling with anger and a growing, devastating shame._

For a few moments Snape stood rooted to the ground, gaping in angry disbelief at the empty air where Pastor Beckett had once stood and desperately refusing to acknowledge the tight, burning knot of guilt building in his chest. He gave his head a shake and attempted to rally his fury, telling himself that Beckett had deserved every ounce of vitriol Snape had served him, but the blasted guilt twisting itself around his heart would not allow it.

_Oh _very_ well done, Severus_, said a little voice. _Not only have you just spectacularly failed at teaching Lawrence how to brew the potion correctly, but you've also succeeded at making him so angry that he'll probably kick you out whenever he gets back. Well done indeed. _Snape grunted and mentally swatted the cynical voice aside, turning his gaze onto the ruined cauldron in a desperate bid to quash the mounting sense of self-disgust.

"Hmph! How dare he leave _me_ to clean up _his_ mess!" he growled half-heartedly to himself, crossing his arms over his chest and ignoring how dim-witted he must sound addressing an empty room. The words, however, did not provide the spike of indignant rage he wanted. In point of fact, glowering at the cauldron and the potions ingredients only made him feel worse. He could vividly imagine Gert's displeasure at discovering that her cauldron was now quite useless and half her ingredients had been used with nothing to show for it.

Snape sighed and reached up to massage his temples, immediately coating his fingertips with botched potion. "Damn it!" he cursed, twisting his face with disgust as he jerked his hands away and scowled at the sticky, pale yellow substance coating his skin. _Wonderful_, he thought sarcastically, curling his lip as he realised that his face, hair and shoulders must also be tainted that colour. He sighed again. The minute flicker of anger gasped and expired as he decided to accept Lawrence's departing invitation to use the shower.

He glanced uncertainly at the cauldron once again, irked at his inability to quash the constricting guilt and summon back his anger. Abruptly he turned from the table and strode to the bed, collecting his cloak and the sack containing his second set of new clothing. _Lawrence can deal with the cauldron himself. His incompetence is responsible for destroying it, after all_, he thought as he walked back to his guestroom, footsteps echoing in the empty corridor.

_Ah, _said a bold inner voice as he entered the chamber, _but you didn't exactly help him _not _destroy it, did you? That means you have equal responsibility in the matter. Go back and clean it up._

_Shut up_, thought Snape irritably, hanging his cloak over the back of the wooden chair. He didn't linger and ponder the implications of telling oneself to be quiet, removing the second of his new robes from the sack and heading across the hall to the loo instead.

Five minutes later he stood under a steady stream of hot water, vigorously scrubbing at the sticky yellow potion on his face and neck with a soapy green rag. It stubbornly refused to come off, and by the time it did it Severus felt he must have scrubbed off at least two layers of skin, which felt raw and stung slightly when the water hit it. He sighed and cleansed the rag, then hesitantly picked up a bottle of shampoo – it felt so awkward to use another person's bath things! – and squirted a palm-sized amount of the cool, pale yellow substance into his hand. It smelled lightly of spices and herbs.

Severus massaged the shampoo into his hair, which had started clumping together in coarse bunches. He sighed again as the water pelted his neck and chest, feeling the last strongholds of his temper wobble and recede as though the water was washing them away. _What the devil is wrong with me?_ he thought, staring forlornly at the grey stone wall behind the spray of water. _I used to enjoy walking over people, didn't I? It felt good to insult their ignorance and their hopeless lack of skills, didn't it? So why the bloody _hell_ is it bothering me now?_

He hoped one of his many inner voices would offer him the answer, but not a single one volunteered its opinion. Severus grunted and shook his head a few times, telling himself that he was quite foolish for wanting little voices in his head to solve his problems and should consider committing himself to the long-term mental care ward in St. Mungo's. He then turned his mind to the task of removing the adamantly sticky gunk from his hair.

An hour and almost half the bottle of shampoo later, Snape ran a hand over his abused scalp and through his clean, de-yellowed black hair. "Finally," he groused, allowing the now-lukewarm water to wash away the last traces of botched potion. Severus turned off the shower, pulled back the dark-green curtain, and then stepped outside the bathtub, wincing and shivering as the cool air assailed his wet body. He quickly towelled dry and dressed, depositing the towel and washrag in a large white wicker basket opposite the sink and mirror and then turning his attention to his soiled robe.

He plucked it from the counter, curling his lip as he surveyed the damage. It felt stiff and crusty where the potion had dried, and little flakes fluttered to the floor when Severus picked at a section of the stain with a fingernail. Grumbling to himself, he grabbed his wand from the countertop. "_Scourgify_!"

Nothing happened. Frowning in displeasure, he tried again. "_Scourgify_!" A few large flakes floated to the floor. "Why the hell is it not working?" he muttered, furrowing his brows into a nearly-straight line and narrowing his eyes at the obstinate blemish. "_Scourgify_, dammit!" More flakes and a few large chunks fell that time, but the robe refused to come completely clean. With a growl Snape knelt in front of the tub, turned on the spigot and shoved the garment under the stream of water, scrubbing at it viciously and throwing every cleaning spell he knew at it. Five minutes later he had achieved nothing but a pair of achy knees and a soggy, still-stained robe. Severus let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as a weary acceptance touched down on his shoulders.

He wrote the robe off as a bad job, drying it with a flick of his wand and folding it up resignedly. After drying his hair with a stream of hot hair from the end of his wand he retired to his room, a cloud of dejection and shame settling over him like a heavy, grey blanket as he reclined on the bed. _It's only a matter of time until Lawrence gets back and asks me to leave_, he thought, sighing and staring listlessly at the ceiling and wondering when that moment would arrive.

Monday, however, passed, and though Severus heard Beckett return later that evening (and noticed that the man increased his pace whenever he walked by Severus's door), the pastor did not knock briskly and demand that Severus leave. In point of fact, he did not see Beckett or speak to him on Tuesday either, as the pastor had not come to Severus and Severus hadn't left his room and sought him out. He suspected that Beckett still felt too angry to speak with him and could not fault the man for it, though on a trip to the loo that afternoon Severus had nearly collided with a tray bearing a plate of cold ham sandwiches and a pot of mint tea floating outside his room. He'd taken it, suspecting that Lawrence's obsession with being a good host prevented him from allowing a guest to starve, even if said guest happened to have upset him.

After waiting in vain for Lawrence to kick him out on Monday, he'd spent most of Tuesday wondering whether or not he should simply leave. He longed to flee to Hogwarts, where life was predictable and he could fall back into old habits without worrying about changes in his behaviour, as they would probably not be happening if he were there. Every time he collected his belongings and made to go, however, he found himself unable to follow through with his plan. The longer he stood staring uncertainly at the door, the heavier an unequivocal feeling that he should stay – quite similar to the feeling that he could trust Pastor Beckett the night he'd arrived – settled upon him. He'd gazed at the door almost longingly and then huffed, tossing his things back onto the bed and throwing himself down next to them, hating himself for not being able to make a decision and then sinking into a state of melancholic half-consciousness.

Wednesday dawned dark, overcast, and rainy. Severus, wearing his cloak over his clothing to ward of the chill in the room, lolled on the bed, left hand draped across his stomach and right arm slung over his forehead, deep in thought. Outside, the rain pounded the grass, trees and tombstones beyond his window and beat the church's roof with a muffled but constant tattoo.

In the excitement over Beckett's corrosive mess, having to buy new robes, and, of course, the disastrous Potions lesson, Snape had completely forgotten about the issues that had plagued him on Sunday. Now that he was alone, without excitement of any sort, thoughts on every issue and problem he had filled his head to bursting.

Especially his problem with anger management.

_It seems that the root of all your problems is a deep-seated anger_. Severus sighed as he recalled Lawrence's words from Sunday afternoon. He could not help but wonder if the pastor had ever imagined he would have the 'deep-seated' anger Snape had so uncharacteristically candidly discussed with him visited on his own head.

He sighed again, swiping his arm across his forehead and then massaging temples plagued by a headache that had settled in on Tuesday morning and stubbornly lingered on. In his mind's eye he saw himself walking down the unpaved streets of Kilterbury, holding his robes around him as the crisp breeze blew them about his body, mulling over the self-same issue. Severus also remembered what Lawrence had said what to do about his anger – specifically, not acting on it in a destructive way – which only served to tighten the stubborn knot of guilt still lurking in his chest.

Monday's Potions lesson made it patently evident he had not taken the advice to heart.

_But you _have_ made progress, you know,_ the inner voice that sounded like Lawrence said suddenly. _For starters, in the past you would never have felt guilty about erupting at someone like you did on Monday. In fact, the only time you ever felt remorseful after losing your temper was when you lost it in front of Albus, or when Albus shamed you into feeling guilty, or you pretended to feel sorry for screaming and raging about something or someone just to make him leave you alone. Now your guilt is genuine, and you know what to do next._

Severus grunted and dug his fingers into his eyes, rubbing them tiredly as spots of colour exploded in his vision. _I know_, he thought back at the voice as he opened his eyes, staring unseeingly at the ceiling. _I simply do not wish to do it. _His gaze slid from the stones of the ceiling to the glass panes of the window, watching the rain falling in slanted sheets outside.

_Too proud to admit we need to apologise, are we?_ said another voice; this one sounded rather cynical. _I hope you realise your pride is responsible for this mess to begin with._ Snape narrowed his eyes.

Lawrence_ is responsible for this mess, not me_, he thought waspishly, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and suppressing a shiver; he felt too lethargic to cast a heating charm on the room.

_I don't think you really believe that, _said another inner voice. It sounded suspiciously like Albus Dumbledore – his other conscience. _Come, Severus. Why compound your guilt by refusing to acknowledge your part and apologise to the person you've wronged?_

Snape sighed and moodily wondered if anyone else's inner voices bullied them. To his consternation, he found himself listening to the Dumbledore and Beckett voices. _I know I should apologise_, he thought back at the voice as he sat up slowly and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. _I…I am simply far too worried that he will not accept my apology to actually try and make one._ As he got up and walked over to the desk to warm himself with a cup of tea – he'd put a stasis charm on it to keep it warm and fresh the day before – a sudden thought hit him.

Why hadn't _Lawrence_ approached _him_ and tried to reconcile things? A long-fingered hand fumbled around the tray as he stared out the window, locating the pot and cup to the right of the empty sandwich plate. Severus had rather thought the usually apology-happy pastor would have done something by now, and found himself quite surprised that Beckett had not.

To his equally great surprise, he found that he actually wanted to patch things up with Lawrence, even if Lawrence didn't seem too keen on the idea. _That's new for you_, said the cynical voice as he turned his attention from the stormy scene outside to the act of pouring himself a cup of tea. _Y__ou're usually quite content to remain in conflict with as many people on the planet as possible._ Severus frowned as he replaced the green vine-patterned teapot on the tray and mentally swiped the voice away, though he recognized that it had a point. He wrapped his chilled hands around the warm porcelain cup and slowly beginning to pace around the room, wondering when and why his behaviour had changed so drastically.

The question of when he could readily answer. Severus had noticed small changes in himself since arriving in Kilterbury and – his heart gave a strange little wrench – asking questions about Christianity. His eyes darted over to the desk, his gaze alighting upon the books Beckett had lent him on guilt, forgiveness and redemption and the notes he'd taken from them on Saturday. With a pang he suddenly realised that, no matter what he had told Lawrence, the idea of redemption continued to appeal to him as much as the beckoning beam of a lighthouse would appeal to a floundering ship on the night-darkened sea.

Severus gave a shaky little sigh and took a liberal sip of the mint tea. His interest in Christianity certainly contributed to the solution, he could not deny it; but his logical mind refused to accept that the entire explanation to the when-and-why conundrum of his behavioural changes could amount to something so simple.

_Why couldn't it? _asked the Lawrence-voice. _It's quite possible, you know. _

_It's also quite possible that there is another solution, _Severus thought back, beyond caring whether or not he was insane for arguing with himself. He drained his cup a few minutes later and returned to the desk to refill it with the last of the tea, cradling it once again as he resumed his slow, thoughtful pacing. In point of fact, the more he mulled over the theory, the more he considered whether his extraordinarily polite, friendly behaviour and talkativeness during the weekend had been the product of mental and emotional upheaval courtesy of Voldemort's torture session.

_It certainly explains why I felt the need to ramble in a woe-is-me manner about the bad decisions I made in the past and my many ever-present flaws_, he mused caustically. When his mind and emotions had recovered from the trauma of torment, it made perfect sense that he'd begin falling back on old behavioural patterns, and since the church decidedly lacked a population of dunderhead students to verbally lacerate, he'd turned his vitriol-deprived tongue on the dunderhead preacher instead.

_Yes, it all fits_, he thought, nodding his head with satisfaction and taking a long sip of his tea.

_Forgive me, but no it doesn't, _said the Lawrence-voice. Severus paused and narrowed his eyes slightly at being contradicted by an inner voice, the rim of his cup poised just shy of his lips. _Explaining away your changes through your torture doesn't explain why you still feel ashamed of what you did on Monday, you know. It might be part of the answer, of course, not the main reason._

Snape harrumphed and leaned back against the cool stones of the wall, left hand grasping his right elbow as he sipped moodily at his tea and scowled out the window. _The most probable 'main reason' is that I've simply gone soft_, he thought, giving a vexed sigh. _It's all Lawrence's fault,_ he added idly, leaning his head against the wall and scowling at the opposite wall as though it had offended him.

_Oh yes, let's blame our problems and internal dilemmas on other people. It's such a wonderfully intelligent and mature thing to do, after all, _said the cynical inner voice.

_Oh shut up, _thought Severus, glaring now. _It _is_ his fault!_ _His bloody kindness is rubbing off on me, infecting me with some sort of infernal 'let's be nice to people' disea –_

A folded bit of parchment slipped under the crack of the door. Severus watched, momentarily stunned completely off his inner rant, as it floated onto the desk and settled itself beside the parchments covered in his own small, spidery handwriting.

Curious and moderately apprehensive – it could, after all, be a request for him to leave – Snape shoved off from the wall and approached the desk, setting his cup down on its saucer with a _chink_ of china and picking up the parchment with his right hand. He unfolded it like a book and read the note, written in light-green ink and small, bubbly, heavy-handed letters:

_Would you like to have tea?_

Severus's eyes widened slightly and he reread the note a few more times to ensure he had read it correctly. Once he'd satisfied himself that it truly was an innocent invitation to tea, he could not help but wonder why it was not an eviction notice like he'd been half expecting. His mouth tipped downward in a small frown and his brows creased faintly across his forehead. _Is he pretending as if the Potions incident did not happen at all, or does he want to discuss it? _

Snape refolded the note and rubbed the edge along his chin. He found himself torn between wanting to forget the incident, thus returning to their previous level of friendliness, and needing to heal the injury that had wounded their relationship in the first place. Deciding that it could not possibly hurt to have a cup of tea or two – even if the invitation amounted to a polite formality preceding a dispatch – Snape returned the note to the desk and in two long-legged strides exited the room.

As he swept down the corridor lit by the soft light of candles, the warm, buttery scent of something baking tickled his nostrils. He slowed his pace as he took a deep sniff of the rich odour, absently wondering why he hadn't noticed the pleasant aroma whilst ensconced in his guestroom. Unconsciously giving a sigh of longing, he approached Pastor Beckett's bedroom and lifted his right hand to rap on the door when the glow of firelight dancing on the wall opposite the sitting room caught his eye.

Severus paused for a moment, hand still raised uncertainly – they had held most of their talks in the kitchen, after all – then shrugged, telling himself that if Lawrence wanted to change the setting he certainly had the right to do so. He walked over to the doorway and peered around the jamb. From his vantage point he could see a large fire blazing merrily in the stone fireplace, casting an orange hue on the bookcases, armchairs and piano. The navy blue curtains were drawn aside, revealing a few rain-thrashed trees and tombstones in the back of the church, the stretch of countryside beyond the stone fence, and dark mountains in the distance almost invisible through the heavy storm clouds and rain. No one seemed to be in the room, but the mouth-watering fragrance of baked goods wafted strongly from within and he could see a small table in front of the armchairs that hadn't been there on Monday.

Snape rapped the edge of the jamb with his knuckles and cleared his throat softly, stepping hesitantly inside and taking a deep breath to prepare for whatever would happen, knowing he deserved the worst. There came the sound of tinkling china and Lawrence – dressed once again in his black pastor's robe – leaned over the right arm of the leftmost armchair, which had hidden him perfectly from view moments before. "Ah! There you are," he said, giving Severus a small but genuine smile and gesturing at the other armchair. "Please, sit down."

Severus obeyed, removing his cloak and hanging it over the back of the chair, surprised at the warm welcome. As he sat down – careful not to bump the table and thus upset the small milk jug or the blue thistle-patterned teapot – he couldn't help but wonder how Lawrence could possibly treat him so kindly after the admittedly terrible way Snape had behaved towards him during the Potions lesson and the utterly awful things he'd said about Christians. _If our positions were reversed_, he mused as Beckett poured him a cup of tea and handed it to him on a saucer, _I would probably still be furious._

As he accepted the tea, he belatedly noticed that the delectable aroma he'd smelled earlier was wafting from a plate of around six semi-round, clumpy golden-brown rolls that steamed as though they were just minutes out of the oven. Snape's mouth watered at the scent. Despite his own no-food-before-ten o'clock rule, he found himself positively wanting one.

Lawrence seemed to notice. "Would you like an oat scone?" he asked, pronouncing 'scone' to rhyme with 'John'. "I remember you said you usually don't eat breakfast, but you might like these. They're also made with sultanas, and I have butter and raspberry jam to spread on them." Severus hesitated only a moment before accepting the offer, suspecting that the scones might be a sort of peace offering and feeling it would be exceedingly bad manners (not to mention exceedingly tactless) to refuse. He sat his cup of tea down on the table and took a small, empty plate from a short stack for the scone, tearing it in half and spreading a small amount of jam on one of the halves before taking a bite.

To his surprise the scone did not taste nearly as sweet as he had expected, based on prior knowledge of Lawrence's seemingly extensive sweet tooth. The raspberry jam added just the right amount of sweetness without overwhelming the scone's own oat flavour. "It's delicious," Severus said once he'd chewed and swallowed the bite of roll, which tasted slightly dry and sported hints of butter and cinnamon. Lawrence smiled.

"I'm glad you like it. It's my mother's recipe, you know."

Severus made an interested noise and retrieved his teacup, feeling he had finally done something right. He took a sip of tea – a delicate vanilla – and chewed his scone, listening to the rain pound the roof and watching it lash the world beyond the windows.

_Now would be a good time to apologise_, said a nagging little voice in his mind as he swallowed the last bite of his scone and took the last sip of his tea a few minutes later. Snape sighed, knowing it had a point, then placed his empty plate on the table as he reached for the teapot to pour himself another cup of tea. He surreptitiously glanced over at Lawrence as he did so to gauge the pastor's mood, as he didn't quite know how to interpret the man's uncharacteristic silence. Beckett sat with his left leg crossed over his right, eyes trained on his teacup while his right index finger slowly traced its rim. He looked thoughtful, not angry. A stream of relief flowed through Severus, though it did not manage to unravel the knot of guilt still twisting in his chest.

He straightened from pouring tea and settled back in his chair, absently blowing on the hot beverage. His black eyes stared into the orange flames dancing and crackling in the fireplace without truly seeing them. Thoughts collided with each other as he wondered exactly how to begin making reparations for his offensive behaviour in such a way that Beckett would be inclined to accept his apology when Beckett abruptly cleared his throat.

"I'm glad you came. I was worried that you wouldn't, you know," he said softly, shifting in his chair so he faced Severus more than the fireplace, propping his elbow on the right arm of the chair.

Snape gave a little shrug. "Unsurprising, all things considering," he said, feeling both a rush of gratitude at Lawrence for speaking first and a stab of disgust at himself for not having had the courage to begin the discussion on his own.

Lawrence gave a little smile that quickly vanished, then drained the rest of his tea and placed the cup and saucer beside the plate of scones. He turned back to Severus, his expression a curious mixture of earnestness and uncertainty. "The reason I asked you to tea is that…well…I wanted to apologise."

Severus choked on the sip of tea he'd just taken. "What?" he rasped once he'd managed to swallow properly. Lawrence apologising to _him_ had not figured in any of the scenarios his mind had conjured on what might likely occur.

"I wanted to apologise," said Lawrence again, clasping his hands together and looking even more uncertain than before.

"For what, exactly?" asked Severus, raising an eyebrow, teacup quite forgotten. He gave Beckett a hard stare, trying to divine if the seemingly innocent, highly unexpected attempt to make amends was really a ploy to manipulate Severus into admitting fault in the matter. He saw, however, only sincerity in Beckett's face.

"Why, for the rude way I spoke to you before I left, and for leaving you to clean up the mess I made, of course," said Lawrence.

Snape simply gaped at him, dumbfounded, wondering exactly how Lawrence had arrived at the I-need-to-apologise conclusion and suspecting that logic had not been invited on the journey. "You treated me exactly the way I deserved," he said flatly. The feelings of guilt lurking just beneath the surface of his mind intensified and overcame his fading surprise at this admission. He sighed and, finding that he couldn't quite look Lawrence in the eye any longer, allowed his hair to fall in front of his face, shielding it from view as he turned his gaze back toward the fireplace.

His eyes fell upon his forgotten tea, and he brought it to his lips and took a sip to try to calm his clenching innards and scudding heart beat. He then gazed into the brown liquid, swirling it slowly around inside the cup, trying to muster every jot of strength and courage he possessed to say the most difficult words to say in any language. Twice he opened his mouth only to close it again quickly when nothing came out. He swallowed harshly, hating himself for his inability to do such a simple task, and then took another sip from his cup, wishing he could drink down his pride as easily as tea.

After a few more moments of tea-swirling and wishing he could simply Evanesco himself, he drew in a deep, silent breath, slowly exhaled, and then forced himself to open his mouth a third time. "I…if either of us needs to apologise, it's me. I can imagine how difficult it is for you to forgive me after the things I did, but…I…I do apologise for losing my temper, and I am sorry for the things I said. They were, as you said, uncalled for."

He forced himself to lift his eyes from the teacup and look over at Lawrence, who blinked and looked as though he hadn't expected this turn of events. "Really?"

"Yes," said Snape, swallowing around a lump of humiliation and inwardly steeling himself for rejection.

Lawrence did not answer for a few moments afterward. Severus swallowed again and returned his eyes to his tea, telling himself that he had been foolish to sit there and hope he would be forgiven and that he should leave immediately and start packing his things. He shifted and opened his mouth to thank Lawrence for the tea and undeserved hospitality when Lawrence said slowly, "Alright then, I forgive you."

* * *

A/N: Ooooh, cliff hanger! I won't promise anything (because that doesn't seem to work), but hopefully the next half will be added within the next week or so. It just needs tweaking (with which I am currently obsessed). 

Thanks to everyone still reading. Like I said, this WILL continue. That is definite. The only indefinite thing is the amount of time passing between continuations, which I will valiantly try to shrink. My month off from torture – er, _university_ – is up and coming, so hopefully some work will get done.

Please review; it lets me know there's at least one person still reading, which has long been my updating policy. No point wasting space with an unread fic and all that. : )

Thanks again and Happy Thanksgiving to fellow American readers!

Cheers,

Ballad


	12. Chapter 12: Lessons in Life II

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad

Genre: Drama/Spiritual

Pairings: None so far

Timeline: SEVERELY AU fifth year; it takes little account of book 6, and possibly no account of book 7. Also, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin.

Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )

A/N: Weeeeeeeeeellllll…oops? Yes, I do in fact have a calendar. Yes, I do in fact know it's been almost half a year. … Not what I intended, I assure you. *sweating bullets* But, I'm thinking that such time intervals will probably be the norm from now on, all things (like school and getting another job 'cause I think I lost my other one and of course spiritual questions of my own) considering.

A note: the following chapter is rather heavy at times in theology. As I am of no particular Christian denomination and am somewhat a free thinker anyway, said theology might not mesh with common/commonly accepted theology of more mainstream denominations. If that bothers you…well, there's little that can be done except to read anyway or not to read at all. To read or not to read: that is your decision! (Yes I love Shakespeare and Hamlet and writing stupid things. Bah.)

Also, since I don't seem to be editing the very first chapters very quickly (understatement of the new year indeed), I thought I might as well put this here: This fic acknowledges that magic is a force of nature that has good, neutral, and bad branches to it and does **not** come from evil spirits/Hell/what have you. This being said, I realize that some Christians might take offence at this. If so, I respectfully suggest that you not read it.

And now, without further blabbing, may I finally present unto thee Chapter 12! Thanks go out to Ominous Voices for editing and waiting patiently for something to edit. Any remaining mistakes are mine, not hers.

Chapter 12: Lessons in Life Part II

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

He who forgives ends the quarrel.

_-African proverb_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_Lawrence did not answer for a few moments afterward. Severus swallowed again and returned his eyes to his tea, telling himself that he had been foolish to sit there and hope he would be forgiven and that he should leave immediately and start packing his things. He shifted and opened his mouth to thank Lawrence for the tea and undeserved hospitality when Lawrence said slowly, "Alright then, I forgive you."_

Forgetting his tea once again Severus snapped his eyes back onto Lawrence, who was giving him a small, gentle smile. He was sure he had misheard. When Lawrence continued to simply smile at him and then began grinning with amusement at Severus's astonishment, however, a little bubble of hope and relief swelled in Severus's chest and unravelled most of the constricting threads of guilt. "You do?" he said, as it was the only coherent reply he could think of; and then, before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "_Why_?"

_What a wonderful way of showing gratitude you have, Severus, _said the cynical inner voice the second the word left his mouth. _He gives you exactly what you thought you weren't going to get and you have the audacity to question it? _Severus, for once, agreed with the voice. He could feel his face growing warm, turning the brick-red colour he so detested. For the second time that morning, he wished he could simply Evanesco himself.

Fortunately, Beckett did not seem to find the question impertinent. He merely shrugged, a thoughtful expression dimming his grin. "Well, you did say that you were sorry, you know, and I could tell you were sincere," he said. "And anyway, I believe that we should always try to forgive others as soon as possible. That can only happen if we focus more on healing instead of on being angry, which is what I've been trying to do. Anyway, when we focus on healing, we can reach the point where, when someone who has wronged us honestly apologises, like you did, we can accept their apology." He then smiled and gave a self-deprecating shake of his head. "And now that I've finished my sermon" – he shifted and snatched a plate and a roll – "would you like another scone?" He tore his own open and began spreading generous amounts of butter on both halves.

Severus stared at him for a moment, slightly taken aback at the sudden change in topic, then nodded. "Yes, please," he said, his relief at having received forgiveness he knew he didn't deserve (regardless of what Lawrence had just said) bolstering his appetite. _If it had been me_, he thought as Lawrence threw him a sideways glance and then placed a particularly fat scone on Snape's crumb-littered plate, _it would have taken me longer than two days to forgive everything._

_Unsurprising, considering your abysmal track record in the Department of Forgiveness – which, I might add, is due to that No_ _Forgiveness Before Ten Years or More Have Passed policy of yours,_ said the cynical inner voice as Lawrence cleaned the butter knife with a napkin, lodged the knife in the jar of raspberry jam, and then nudged both toward Severus. The pastor then turned to refill his empty teacup, humming softly as he tipped in a small amount of milk and – Severus wrinkled his nose – ruined it as usual by adding far too much sugar.

_Shut up,_ Severus commanded the voice as he watched Beckett cheerfully butcher his tea. Watching his friend reminded Snape of his own twice-forgotten teacup, still held aloft in his right hand. He took a sip and sat it on the table and had just reached for the scone when a flurry of images swept through his mind.

Most, he noted with displeasure, his hand poised above the plate, were of the people he held grudges against and needed to forgive. He snorted to himself, grabbed the roll, and tore it in half, dismissing most of them immediately as they had neither expressed regret nor tried to make amends for the actions that had earned them a place on Snape's hate list to begin with. The faces of Dumbledore and Lupin, however, refused to fade as quickly, and contemplating just why they remained made him uncomfortable. With a mental shove he banished the images to the back of his mind and concentrated on daubing small smudges of jam on each half of his scone. Thinking about those people threatened to provide the remaining threads of guilt with a negative emotion that would strengthen them and enable them to drag his good mood beneath waves of resentment. As he was growing rather fond of his good mood (having not been in one since Monday), he wanted it ruined almost as much as he wanted Gryffindor to win the House Cup.

"Is something wrong?" asked Lawrence. Severus started at the interruption of his brooding, then gave his head a minute shake to clear it. He fleetingly wondered what led Lawrence to believe that something was amiss before realising that he had not said a word since he had accepted the offer of a scone.

"No," he said, taking a bite to prove that everything was indeed fine. Lawrence scrutinised him a moment longer, features arranged in light concern, before he was convinced that Severus was indeed telling the truth. His concern melted into a soft smile as he leaned back, balancing his teacup-laden saucer delicately on the arm of the chair.

"Anyway," said Lawrence, "sermon aside, I also forgave you because I've had plenty of time to think everything over. This _is_ the first time we've spoken since Monday morning, you know." The soft smile morphed into his signature self-deprecating smile. "That's my fault, really, since I was…well…sort of avoiding you."

Severus swallowed the bite of scone he had taken and returned the roll to the plate, absently swishing crumbs from his fingers. "Sort of avoiding me," he repeated, lifting his left eyebrow. Beckett's face pinked slightly. "And why, pray tell, were you sort of avoiding me?"

"Why, because I thought you were still angry with me, of course. You wouldn't come out of your room."

Snape smirked slightly. "I didn't come out because I thought _you_ were angry with _me_ and had no wish to see me after what happened."

"Well, I would be lying if I said I wasn't angry for a while, you know," said Lawrence, not quite meeting Severus's eye at this admission. "But I got over it around…hmm…noon yesterday, I think it was." He thought for a moment. "Yes, noon yesterday." Severus raised his other eyebrow at this. He had thought that Lawrence had stopped feeling angry at him only today. The news that he might have done so earlier surprised him. The cynical inner voice suggested that Severus felt this way because his own ability to hold grudges and stay angry at people for long periods of time far surpassed that of any normal person, but he mentally silenced it.

"…couldn't concentrate on anything Tuesday morning," Lawrence was saying, "so I Apparated to that mountain over – well, you can't see it now for the rain, but it's usually visible through the left window. I go there and walk around for a while whenever I…well…get upset. Outdoor exercise seems to help me think more clearly, you know." He flashed Severus his self-deprecating smile again. "Anyway, as I was walking and thinking everything over, I discovered that I couldn't really blame you for losing your temper with me during the Potions lesson. My stupidity was in prime form on Monday, you know."

Severus, who had rather been expecting some moral or theological explanation, heartily resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the one he had received instead. "Though I can readily agree with your last statement, I'd rather you not defend my faults after I just finished apologising for them," he said. Doing so would completely invalidate the torture he had just endured apologizing for said faults, after all, and at that moment he wanted that to happen about as much as he wanted to adopt Potter.

"I'm not defending them; I'm just telling you that I understand why you got angry. It's possible to understand why people do things without condoning whatthey do, you know."

"Hmph. Says you."

"Exactly," said Lawrence, grinning again. "Understanding the reasons behind someone's actions can help us forgive them, though obviously not always, of course. In the end, forgiveness is not so much a thing of understanding or logic but of grace." He blinked. "Which I probably should have said earlier instead of preaching at you. Ah well." He gave Severus an amiably apologetic smile and then took a bite of his scone.

They lapsed into silence, allowing the cheerful crackling of the fire, the drumming of rain on the roof, and the distant rumblings of thunder to fill the room in lieu of their voices. Severus idly watched as a tongue of fire devoured a spindly branch on the foremost log, mulling over Beckett's words as he drained his tea and finished one half of his own scone. He could not help but wonder if Dumbledore had understood that Snape's reasons for joining the Death Eaters had not revolved around true hatred but a need to feel acceptance, of which he had known little at either home or school. He shifted his gaze from the fire to the window and absently watched raindrops pelt the glass, wondering if that same understanding had helped Dumbledore forgive him, and if, along with other factors, it had influenced the headmaster's decision to induct him into the Order.

An image of one particular Order member, grinning and tossing back his head arrogantly, popped into his mind. Snape stiffened and clenched his teeth. Sirius Black had starred in the montage of images of people he needed to forgive, but Snape, lip curling, firmly believed that no amount of understanding or anything else could ever help him forgive Black for sending him into the lair of a werewolf and later brushing it off as a joke.

"Are you _sure_ nothing is wrong?" asked Lawrence, disrupting what would surely have evolved into a mental thrashing of Black. Severus started, then relaxed his unnecessarily firm grip on his teacup. The spike of anger that inevitably stabbed him whenever he thought of Black was steadily dissolving, though a dark, silken web still clung lightly to his thoughts.

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you were sort of just sitting there, you know, glaring off into space…"

Snape mentally rolled his eyes at Beckett's turn of phrase. "I was merely thinking," he said, "and mostly about why you waited so long to tell me all of this." A small part of him hated to lie to Lawrence (and hated himself for the ease with which he had done it), but the larger part so loathed the idea of having an in-depth Black-centred discussion at that moment that it was fully prepared to lie to avoid it.

Perfectly oblivious to this fact, Beckett flushed slightly as he took a drink of his tea. "Ah, well, mostly because I thought you were still angry, like I said earlier, but also because…well…because I didn't want to have another row with you."

Severus snorted softly at this. Avoiding someone simply because that person would likely be angry and want to argue was, in his opinion, completely cowardly, though he felt far too content with the restoration of their friendship to sabotage it by expressing this opinion aloud. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and poured himself another cup of tea. "And what led you to the conclusion that I wouldn't be angry and want to argue today?" he said, neatly omitting the fact that he had been in neither an angry nor an argumentative mood since Monday.

Lawrence's flush deepened and he fiddled with his glasses. "Ah, well, nothing, really…I just finally got tired of avoiding you and decided that, no matter how much I disliked the thought of having another row, we needed to talk, even if you were still in the mood to bite off my head." He flashed Severus a mischievous grin. "You can be incredibly intimidating for a tall, scrawny Englishman, you know."

"Indeed?" said Snape, raising his eyebrows as if this was an astonishing revelation.

"Indeed," said Lawrence, nodding sagely. He was still grinning as he took a large drink of tea, but when he lowered the cup, the grin had faded away. "You _are_ right, though," he said with a small sigh. "We could have avoided all this misunderstanding if I had just had the nerve to talk to you earlier." The self-deprecating smile appeared on his face yet again. "You have my sincerest apologies, Severus."

Severus, who had just taken a large bite of his scone, chewed it slowly to delay the moment he had to respond. Though he had never levelled such an accusation, the temptation to allow Beckett to take the blame for everything glittered beguilingly in his mind. The man seemed willing to accept all fault in the matter anyway, and Snape could, after all, have avoided a great deal of inner turmoil had Beckett simply chosen to pay him a visit instead of avoiding him and thus prolonging Snape's sufferings.

The threads of guilt that had been patiently lurking in his chest, however, again twisted themselves into tight knots at the thought of carrying out such a design. The word "dammit" fluttered through his mind at this, though only milliseconds passed before an entourage of shame followed in its wake. He gave an inaudible sigh, finally swallowed his scone, and immediately took an equally large drink of tea, hoping that Lawrence would not notice that he was stalling for time.

Severus dearly longed to accept the apology and thus enjoy the novel experience of someone else apologizing to him instead of vice versa. To both his surprise and vexation, he found that he simply could not do so in good conscience. It felt as comfortable as swallowing a bucket of baby Blast-Ended Skrewts to admit it, but he knew full well there would be no situation in need of mending had he simply controlled his temper. _Not only that,_ added the cynical inner voice, back yet again from whatever level of his mind he had banished it to countless times before, _but you could have ended the situation after you started it by talking to him_, _but _no. _You were far too busy wallowing in your own little haze of melancholy to do anything so productive, weren't you? _

"No need to apologise," said Severus, interrupting the inner voice before it could continue its diatribe. He waved his left hand dismissively as though he had not just debated with himself for almost ten seconds over what he should do.

__"Yes, well, there is, actually," said Lawrence. A shadow of the earnest, uncertain expression he had worn earlier clouded his face, and he began fidgeting with his teacup. "If not for that, then for…well…for the other things I mentioned earlier."

A wave of annoyance inundated the guilt-knots, almost washing them away. Severus was revisited by and this time surrendered to the urge to roll his eyes. _So we've journeyed back to this nonsense, have we?_ he thought. _Wonderful._ "And do you remember what I said after you mentioned those things?"

"You said I treated you exactly how you deserved, but –"

"And so you did," said Snape with a tone of finality. He took another bite of his scone, hoping Lawrence would take the hint and drop the subject.

Beckett peered at him silently for a few moments, then sighed, took a drink from his teacup, and placed the cup on its saucer. "It _is_ why I asked you to tea, you know," he said with the tone of someone navigating a minefield. "To apologise for those things."

Snape, who had been staring resolutely through the rain-pummelled windowpane at the lightning slicing through the darkness, bit back a groan. He could feel the slender strands of residual anger from thinking about Black trying to solidify, but he mentally checked them despite his rising level of frustration. He strongly suspected that if he lost his temper again, their tenuous friendship would shatter into thousands of irreparable fragments.

Only this sheer determination to maintain their newly-restored rapport prevented him from whipping his wand out of his sleeve and hexing Beckett's mouth shut. "The only thing you have any business apologising for is the intellectual sin of idiocy," he said half irritably and half sardonically, shifting his gaze from the storm to the pastor and raising both eyebrows emphatically.

"Well, I suppose I could add it to my list," said Lawrence, smiling mildly as he took a bite of his scone.

"It should be the only thing on your blasted list."

Lawrence swallowed both scone and smile and sighed, sounding as though he too was trying to curb a feeling of annoyance. "Forgive me, Severus, but I really don't think it should," he said, placing the half-eaten scone on the plate in his lap and folding his hands. "I need to apologise for…well…being stupid just as much as I need to apologise for the other things. Especially," he added, dipping his head, dropping his gaze, and frowning slightly at the section of blue carpet between their chairs and the table, "for completely losing my temper with you."

The shades of frustration and self-directed disappointment colouring his voice suggested that Lawrence losing his temper did not often occur. Judging by his reaction, Severus suspected that he prided himself on that fact. _Which would explain why he's behaving as though he's done something unpardonable_, he thought, snorting derisively to himself. He found it exceedingly irritating whenever people who had not done something egregious acted as though they had, as it made people who had done something egregious feel even worse about it.

Despite his irritation, Snape hesitated to disregard Lawrence's apology and berate him for being an illogical, self-deprecating idiot. He knew what it felt like to pluck out his ego and lay it at the feet of someone who had every right to crush it beneath his heel, after all. Deciding to act on this rare feeling of magnanimity even while a part of him raised its eyebrow at such a decision, he sipped his tea and said, "Considering what I did to make you lose it, your loss of temper was entirely understandable."

Lawrence shrugged and sighed. Though his gaze remained locked on the floor, his frown and the creases in his brow had grown smaller. "Well, yes, I suppose; but…" He made a vague, lost gesture. "I still don't think I should have gotten so angry with you."

Patience exhausted and magnanimity rapidly evaporating, Severus sighed and aborted taking a sip of tea, reasoning that he was less likely to fling the teacup at Lawrence's head if it still had liquid inside. _If he thinks he's making me feel better by insisting that he is just as culpable as I am, then he is sorely mistaken, _he grumbled to himself. In point of fact, Beckett's stubborn insistence that he was in the wrong was making Snape feel even more self-conscious about his own guilt. This, in turn, was allowing the guilt knots to overcome the annoyance that had previously checked them and begin constricting Snape's chest with renewed vigour.

A flicker of pain behind his eyes let him know that his headache, which had faded earlier with hot tea and roll therapy, had decided to return. Too weary of the martyr-like I-am-at-fault-for-everything behaviour to continue arguing with it, he said, "Believe that if you want, Lawrence, but you still have no business feeling guilty about it. The only legitimate apology you can possibly offer is for being an idiot, which, I might add, you are being right now." At the same time he spoke, a growl of distant thunder rumbled through the air as if the sky too felt exasperated with the situation.

Lawrence tore his gaze from the carpet at this and threw Severus a semi-pleading, semi-frustrated look, meeting the Potions Master's eye for the first time in minutes. This made Severus marginally happier, as he now felt less like a teacher chastising a wayward student and more like a friend helping another friend see reason (though he was honestly ready to strangle said friend). "Forgive me, Severus, but _please_ try to understand! Anger…it's an incredibly dangerous emotion." Snape smirked humourlessly to himself. _I understand _that_ concept all too well_, he thought cynically. "What begins as righteous anger can easily evolve into _self_-righteous anger," Lawrence was saying, "and that, in turn, can easily evolve into hatred."

Snape re-evaluated his previous decision and decided that the best place for both teacup and saucer was on the table, safely beyond his reach. "And have you progressed to either of the last two emotions?" he asked, draining his tea and setting the cup on its saucer near the plate of scones.

"Ah, well, to be completely honest, no, but –"

"Then I fail to see your point." He stuffed the rest of his scone into his mouth as both a gesture of finality and as a reason to place the small plate next to the teacup on the table, thus removing all potential projectiles from his immediate reach. This accomplished he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and, while stifling the sudden urge to yawn, watched with sardonic amusement as Lawrence tried to compose a retort.

The pastor frowned, opened his mouth, said, "Yes, but…I…um…well…," and then trailed off, letting his mouth hang open for a moment before slowly closing it. He furrowed his brows and stared at a point on the rug near the toe of Severus's left boot, as though the way to express the fruits of his illogical thought processes to ensure that said fruits could not possibly be dismissed was woven in the threads.

Severus allowed him to flounder a moment longer, then sighed, his amusement flowing out of him along with his breath. He had grown tired of it all – Lawrence trying to convince him that Lawrence was at fault; the confusion he felt at trying to convince Lawrence that Lawrence was _not_ at fault when usually he garnered so much pleasure from making people feel even guiltier.

Most of all, he was tired of the mass of guilt weighing down his chest.

He crossed his right leg over his left and pressed his back further into the chair as the distastefully familiar feeling of wrong-footed, embarrassed self-consciousness descended upon him once again. Though his experience with this type of situation was admittedly limited, Severus had reached the tentative conclusion that confessing guilt tended to ease it, even though the actual act of confessing and the awkward moments just after tended to smother him in humiliation.

It felt as distasteful as awarding one hundred points to Gryffindor, but Severus wanted the discussion to end so badly that even reopening the still-tender wound on his abused ego seemed a small price to pay. "Look, Lawrence," he said gruffly at the same time Lawrence looked up and said, "Forgive me, but –"

They both halted mid-sentence and stared at each other for a moment until one of the logs in the fireplace shifted, crackling loudly and sending up a shower of sparks. Lawrence jumped slightly at the unexpected sound and then flushed, the corners of his mouth twitching upward into a small, sheepish grin. "You go ahead," he said, fiddling with his glasses with his left hand and motioning for Severus to talk with his right.

Severus, who had been too preoccupied with feeling guilty and uncomfortable to be startled, sighed and shot Beckett an irked frown for making him talk first. He could insist that the pastor speak first and enter the pointlessly polite cycle of "No, you go ahead;" "No, _you_ go ahead; I insist," but that would waste time, and he wanted to get the unpleasant moment over with as fast as possible. And so, though he would rather not have had Beckett's full attention while he delivered another blow to his pride, he cleared his throat, resisted another overwhelming urge to yawn, and opened his mouth. "I cannot imagine why you insist on thinking so, but you are nowhere near as culpable in what happened as I am. The difference between us is that you, for some inexplicable reason, only _feel_ guilty, while I, for reasons we both know, _am_ guilty." _There; I've said it_, he thought, feeling both much better and much worse simultaneously, telling himself that he deserved any discomfiture he felt.

"Not anymore, you aren't," said Lawrence promptly, uncrossing his legs and leaning toward Snape. "You apologised for what you did, and I accepted your apology. That absolves you before me, the primary person wronged, and though there is still God to consider, absolution before Him will, I think, come in time." He blinked. "Providing, of course, that you're still interested in Christianity. Forgive me, Severus; that was an incredibly large assumption for me to make." He gave Snape a rueful smile, took a sip of his tea, and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Ach! Cold!" he choked once he had swallowed, then leaned forward and poured himself a new cup.

An odd feeling of shyness descended on Severus when Lawrence mentioned Christianity. He wanted to tell Lawrence that yes, he was still interested in Christianity in spite of what he had said Monday, but something held him back. He felt the way a person who had vehemently rejected an offer felt when, after consideration, he found that he actually wanted to accept the offer, but was afraid that those who had offered it would throw his refusal back in his face and tell him he had missed his chance. Though he suspected that Lawrence was not the type of person to do such a thing, still Severus hesitated to speak.

It did not improve matters that his brain felt fuzzy and sluggish. Nor did it help that the velvet warmth of the fire was caressing his skin so soothingly and that the armchair felt so comfortable…He had not slept well after Monday's fiasco, and listening to the rain while watching the flames dance in the fireplace made him feel as though he would like nothing more than to have a nap…

"Anyway," said Lawrence, startling Snape out of the beginnings of a heavy-lidded stupor, "well, forgive me, but it isn't quite true that I feel guilty for 'inexplicable reasons,' you know." He sampled his tea and then replaced the cup on its saucer, which was still balanced on the arm of his chair. "As a pastor, it's sort of worse for me to do something wrong than it is for someone else to do the same thing because I'm supposed to be a role model of how the faith should be lived out – for both Christians _and_ non-Christians. Losing my temper with you and then leaving you to clean up the mess I helped cause weren't exactly things a role model should have done, you know," he added, his cheeks reddening.

Despite the fact his eyes felt like balls of lead, Snape managed to roll them. "If I say that I forgive you will it make you shut up?" he groused.

"Ah, well, yes, I suppose," said Lawrence, smiling through his flush. "But you really shouldn't say that unless you've re…really…" He broke off and gave an enormous yawn, then stared at nothing in particular for a few moments afterward, blinking groggily. "Oh my. My apologies, Severus, I didn't mean to –"

A blinding glare of light blazed into the room, followed instantly by a deafening KABOOOOOM!

Instantly Severus leapt to his feet, whipping out his wand and brandishing it at the window, the words _Death Eaters!_ reverberating through his mind and his heart ramming itself against his ribcage. He stood tense and alert, eyes searching unblinkingly for any sign of movement outside, before he suddenly realised that it had only been lightning and thunder and not Death Eaters at all.

He lowered his wand slowly, feeling exceedingly foolish for pointing it at nothing, and turned to look at Lawrence, who had yelped and flinched so violently that he had knocked his plate and half-eaten scone off his lap and onto the floor. "And how long have we lived here?" asked Snape in a patronizing voice, slipping his wand back up his left sleeve as he lowered himself back into his chair.

Lawrence's fear-white face flushed crimson. "Oh shut up," he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Just because I've lived here a long time doesn't mean I'm used to lightning striking right next to the church, you know." He uncrossed his left arm and reached for his teacup, but his fingers grasped only air. Severus, who took one look at the situation and realised what had happened, smirked as he watched Beckett blink, stare at the empty saucer for a moment, and then peer over the arm of the chair.

The teacup, dislodged by Beckett's earlier flinch, now lay on the floor a few centimetres from his chair, its spilled contents staining the blue carpet.

"Well damn it," said Lawrence, frowning as he surveyed the damage. He drew his wand from a pocket on the left side of his robe and then leaned over the arm of the chair, scooping up the teacup and pointing his wand at the stain. "_Scourgify_!" Instantly pink magic soap bubbles frothed over the blue carpet, and when they vanished nearly ten seconds later, so had the stain. Lawrence gave the clean carpet a triumphant smile and then turned his attention to collecting the plate and scone from the floor, uttering something that sounded suspiciously like another curse as he did so.

Severus watched Beckett for a moment, smirking to himself, then leaned forward to retrieve his tea, reasoning that, as the danger of him chucking anything at Lawrence had passed, it was now safe to do so. As he poured himself a new cup (the tea already inside would surely be cold by now), the thought occurred to him that now would be a perfect moment to disabuse Beckett of the notion that Severus was not interested in Christianity. Though the odd feeling of shyness mixed with uncertainty refilled him, it came unaccompanied by the sensation that his brain was immersed in soupy fog. He leaned back in his chair, took a sip of his tea, and then said nonchalantly, "By the way, in regard to your earlier assumption, I _am_ still interested."

Lawrence, who had just finished with cleaning up and then pouring himself another cup of tea, gave Severus a blank look. "Hmm? What do you – oh!" His face brightened and a smile bloomed across it as comprehension dawned on him. "Really? You are? Splendid!" he exclaimed, eyes shining and looking as excited as if someone had told him that, until further notice, Christmas would be occurring every day of the week.

Severus outwardly smirked at Beckett's exuberance while inwardly he fought the urge to flush at being the object of so much blatant delight. "It certainly doesn't take much to make you happy, does it?" he said, taking another sip of his tea.

"Yes, well, after Monday I was so worried that my stupidity had turned you away from Christianity that to hear that you're still interested is, well, splendid!" said Lawrence, completely ignoring his own tea in his happiness. "It's sort of my job to teach others about Christianity, you know, not shove them away from it. I _am_ the bloody pastor of a bloody church, you know," he added, now grinning like an idiot.

Severus groaned and rolled his eyes at the resurgence of the insufferable phrase, wishing he could go back in time and mute his past self before he could utter it to begin with. "As you have oft reminded me," he said dryly, "and if you remind me one more time I swear that I will Obliviate you." Lawrence merely continued to grin at him, apparently convinced that Severus was being facetious – which was only half-true.

Suddenly Beckett's eyes widened. "Oh! That reminds me! I remember you telling me on Monday morning that you wanted to borrow some of my books. Do you still want them?"

Severus, who had completely forgotten having asked to borrow books, paused in mid-motion of bringing his teacup to his lips. His brain scrambled to recover the memory, piecing together the events of the morning that, from this side of the fiasco, seemed so distant. Scenes flashed haphazardly through his mind: drinking coffee in the small kitchen – a blown up-looking Lawrence greeting him when he knocked on the door – the agonising pain he had endured when the botched potion had eaten through his clothing and burned his skin – his mind flickered back to drinking coffee; why? He concentrated on the memory, trying to recreate his mental state in that moment – and remembered that he had wanted to borrow books on redemption, forgiveness, and holy magic.

"I do, yes," he said, bringing his teacup to his lips after what seemed like hours but really amounted to only a few seconds. He described the type of books he was interested in borrowing, though he did not include the holy magic books. Only simple intellectual curiosity governed his desire to peruse books on that subject, and though it would be fascinating to read them, he had more important topics with which to occupy his mind.

"Splendid!" said Lawrence, beaming and looking so thrilled it seemed as though the tense discussion of only minutes before had never occurred. "I don't have any of those books in here, so I'll have to go to my office to get them. I'll only be a minute!" He made to balance his teacup and saucer on the arm of his chair, caught himself, gave Severus a that's-not-a-very-good-idea-now-is-it? grin, and then settled them on the table a safe distance from any edge. He then got up, stretched, and walked out of the room with such a spring in his step that he practically bounced his way through the doorway.

Severus, who had watched over his left shoulder as Beckett left, lifted a slender eyebrow and shook his head in amusement as he returned to facing the fire. He took a long drink of his tea and got halfway through wondering how much of Beckett's cheeriness could be attributed to the man's innate personality and how much could be attributed to his sugar intake when he was overcome by a jaw-cracking yawn.

_But…it's not even past ten_ _yet_! he thought fuzzily to himself, giving his head a shake to wake himself up. He had no business feeling like wandering back to his room and taking a nap this early in the morning! _Come to think of it_, he thought, frowning and digging the nails of his right hand into his thigh to keep himself alert, _I've been feeling tired for the past ten minutes or so. But why?_ His sleep had admittedly not been very refreshing over the past two nights, but he had endured much longer bouts of insomnia at Hogwarts and never once felt like dropping into bed before ten o'clock in the morning.

And that was while teaching classes full of dunderhead students, not sitting in front of a fireplace stuffing himself with tea and scones!

_At any rate, Lawrence was feeling tired earlier as well, so it might not be simple exhaustion,_ he mused as his mind shuffled slowly through the events of the morning, searching for clues. He gave a vexed sigh – _This would be so much easier if I wasn't so damn tired! – _and raised his cup to take a sip of tea when a realisation hit him broadside.

The last time he had had vanilla tea was Sunday afternoon, when Malfoy had made his unexpected visit.

Snape froze, teacup poised just shy of his lips, then slowly returned it to its saucer as his mind began sifting through memories of that afternoon as quickly as it could in its lethargic state. He could not recall if the blue thistle-patterned teapot had been present. He had been so disturbed and shocked at Malfoy's presence inside the church that specific and relatively unimportant details – like the pattern on the teapot – had escaped his notice.

One thing he did recall, however: A similar, all-consuming fatigue had affected both him and Lawrence during the discussion they had had on Malfoy and holy magic after Malfoy departed. They both had gone to bed soon after, but – he frowned and furrowed his brow, forcing his heavy, protesting mind to think and remember – it could not have been long after four in the afternoon, if that late, when they had done so! A fuzzy memory of Lawrence hinting that he usually stayed up late dragged itself from the dismal mire of his mind, and the fact that Severus himself usually did not go to bed until after ten-thirty solidified the notion that something somewhere was amiss. _To have the same feeling of fatigue strike us both at a time when we should be awake and alert defies the limits of coincidence_, he thought as he leaned forward to place his tea on the table, giving his thigh an extra-hard pinch to keep himself awake enough to pursue the notion. _The only common link between both situations is a pot of vanilla tea, and the greatest anomaly is one Lucius Malfoy. I wonder if he did something –_

"Found them!" said Lawrence jovially. Severus started, having been concentrating so hard on remaining conscious and solving the Why Am I So Bloody Tired? riddle that he had not even heard Beckett re-enter the sitting room. He glanced away from the fire (which he realised he had been staring at blankly) in time to see Lawrence all but jump into his armchair, an excited smile on his face and two books – a thick black volume with ornate silver lettering on the cover and a slender, dark green leather-bound tome – wrapped in his arms. "You borrowed my best books on redemption and forgiveness on Saturday, you know, so this one" – he tapped the dark green book – "is sort of just supplemental. And, since you're still interested in Christianity, I also picked out one of my best – Severus? _Severus_?"

Severus had not heard one word Lawrence had said. The instant his mind registered that Lawrence had returned, only one line of thought managed to cross it: the fact that he could verify his suspicions (or prove himself a paranoid over-analyzer of innocent situations) simply by asking Lawrence if he had also noticed anything at all unusual. He did not know for certain that Malfoy had caused the overpowering fatigue by tampering in some way with the teapot, after all, though his instincts certainly leaned in the 'guilty' direction. Questioning Beckett about the teapot first made the most sense. If Beckett had used it since Sunday and had not experienced unusual levels of tiredness afterward, then Snape's entire theory would collapse.

The repetition of his name, however, jerked him from his contemplations back to reality. Severus gave his head a small shake, then, after digging his nails into his thigh to combat the ever-growing temptation to flop back in his armchair and sink into a stupor, he refocused his gaze on the pastor.

Beckett was staring at him, his brows pushed together and the corners of his mouth pulled down slightly to form an expression of both concern and confusion. "Is something wrong?" he asked, plainly at a loss as to why Severus no longer seemed interested in the books he had retrieved from his office.

"I don't know," said Severus, too tired and bewildered and tired of feeling bewildered to answer any way but honestly. He pressed his right hand firmly against his mouth to stifle a yawn, then gestured at the blue thistle-patterned teapot with it. "Where did you last have that teapot?"

Lawrence blinked and stared at him for a few long seconds. Then, his frown deepening, his eyes shifted to gaze at the item in question before sliding back onto Snape a moment later. "In the kitchen?" he said slowly, as if it were a trick question.

_Stupid!_ Snape growled at himself. _What else could he say, unless he's in the habit of leaving teapots sitting out wherever he last used them?_ "No – I meant, when did you last use it?" he said, pinching the bridge of his nose as the first jagged bolts of pain from a fatigue headache lanced through his head.

Again Lawrence stared at him as though he had quite taken leave of his lucidity. Severus stared back over his index finger and thumb while his left hand pinched his thigh, hoping the man's seemingly compulsive desire to help anyone in any way possible would override his desire to ask questions and compel him to provide answers instead.

Either the compulsion triumphed or Lawrence realised he could never outstare Severus, for after only a short staring contest the pastor sighed and shifted his gaze to frown at a spot in the ceiling. "Erm…well…it's the teapot I use to make black tea, but I've been drinking mostly coffee lately, so…um…Sunday, I think, was the last time I used it," he said, tapping the top edge of the thick black book with his right index finger. Sighing again he looked back at Severus, his question-clouded eyes and frowning expression telltale signs that he neither understood nor appreciated the sudden inquisition into his teapot usage. "May I ask why you want –" The finger stopped tapping as he broke off, blinking. For a few heartbeats his eyes glazed over in thought, and when they refocused, they held a gleam of understanding. "That was the day Lucius Malfoy came here, wasn't it?" He gave Snape a searching look. "Do you think he cast some sort of spell on the teapot before left?"

"Perhaps," said Severus, still not quite ready to fully commit himself to his theory. Lawrence's answer had only proven that the theory was not completely false, after all. There still remained the possibility – however improbable – that he had completely misjudged the circumstances. But his suspicions against Malfoy continued to hold their ground, and Lawrence, now that he had puzzled out exactly what Severus meant by his admittedly strange questions, seemed to be thinking along similar lines. All that remained now was to ask the deciding question. Giving the bridge of his nose a final, futile squeeze, he lowered his hand in spite of the growing headache pain and asked, "Do you remember anything…_unusual_ happening on Sunday?"

"What, you mean something more unusual than a Death Eater visiting my church?" said Lawrence with a small smile, his good humour restored now that he understood why Severus had ignored the books and apparently content to ignore them as well as long as he had a good reason. Snape merely lifted his left eyebrow to form a please-answer-the-question-seriously expression. Lawrence gave him an if-you-really-must-insist smile in return and then frowned once more, though this time it was contemplative rather than frustrated. His gaze slipped to the same spot on the ceiling he had stared at earlier, while his fingers began lightly thrumming the top edges of the books. "Well," he said after nearly ten seconds had passed, "to be completely honest, I don't really remember anything unusual about Sunday other than Malfoy's visit. I imagine that you do, though." He gave Snape a sheepish smile and fiddled with his glasses.

Severus sighed. With every passing second both the fatigue headache and the exhaustion mushroomed in strength, making it harder to think, harder to remember, harder even to speak. "After Malfoy left, we had a discussion on holy magic and then on Malfoy himself," he said, digging his fingernails as far as he could into his thigh to combat his mental foes. He was caught between hoping the reminder would jog something in Beckett's memory (and thus prove he had not degenerated into an overly paranoid lunatic) and hoping that it would not. If Malfoy had tampered with the teapot in any way, the possible reasons could not be in any way good.

Beckett's eyes lit up and his fingers ceased motion at Snape's mentioning of the Sunday afternoon discussions. "Now that you mention it, I do remember feeling incredibly tired after we finished talking. That was odd, you know, since I usually stay up well past eleven p.m., and it" – he frowned and squinted at nothing in particular – "it wasn't even past five o'clock then, was it?" His eyes abruptly widened and his frown eased as an expression of dawning comprehension crept onto his face. "And it happened again this morning, didn't it? I almost fell asleep in my chair before that bloody clap of thunder scared the – well." He pinked and fiddled with his glasses again. "Did you also notice –?"

"Yes," said Severus, impatient to dispose of further discussion and test the teapot itself for enchantments while he still had the strength to use magic.

"On both days?" Severus nodded. "Really?" Lawrence's brows furrowed marginally. "Forgive me, but then why didn't you check –?"

"I only made the connection less than ten minutes ago," said Severus, "and I wanted to make sure I wasn't imagining things before I started throwing spells at your possessions."

"Ah. Well, that was very considerate of you, you know." Severus gave Lawrence a look, then, too tired to decipher whether or not he was being serious, he drew his wand from his left sleeve and shifted to face the teapot.

It sat clustered with and slightly in front of the milk jug, sugar bowl, jar of raspberry jam, and butter dish. The plate of cooled scones and Lawrence's empty teacup and the scone he had knocked to the floor earlier were to its left, while the small stack of empty plates, Severus's used plate, and his half-drunk tea were on its right. Behind the table the fire flickered and danced softly, sparking occasionally and bathing everything before it in warm, golden-orange light.

The scene looked entirely innocent, but Severus, glowering at the teapot as though it had committed a criminal act, flicked his wand at it irritably. "_Specialis Revelio!_"

Lawrence's eyes widened and his mouth formed an 'o' shape, but Severus watched with little surprise as the teapot began glowing a bright, silvery-blue, giving the sides of the objects facing it a sapphire tint. After a few moments the magical light deepened to a colour reminiscent of a clear evening sky, then slowly faded and allowed the firelight to dominate once more.

"Well," said Lawrence, his eyes still wide, "I daresay that means Malfoy enchanted it."

Snape nodded. "The bastard," he growled as he stuffed his wand back up his sleeve, almost angry enough to fight off the crushing compulsion to lapse into a daze.

Lawrence made a sceptical noise in his throat and rubbed his jaw in front of his ear. "Forgive me, but…um…I really don't see why Malfoy casting a sleeping spell on my teapot is so…well…_bastardly,_" he said, giving Severus an apologetic look.

Snape glared at him incredulously. "And why not? He probably meant to put us both into so deep a sleep that he and some other Death Eaters could break in later and murder you and capture me! Is that _bastardly _enough for you?" he snapped, caught between both hating that he could still think like a Death Eater and feeling thankful that he could, as it allowed him to avoid being caught unawares by anything they might do.

"Please calm down, Severus," said Lawrence, holding up his hands in a conciliatory manner, allowing the books to slump forward into his lap. "I'm sure you're right, since you know him better than I do and know what he's likely to do."

Severus harrumphed, though it turned into a groan as particularly sharp spike of pain lanced through his head. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose harshly; then, ashamed at losing his temper, he sighed and muttered around his hand, "Sorry."

"It's alright," came the almost expected reply.

Severus sighed again, wondering not ungratefully how Lawrence managed to be so kind all the bloody time. Concluding that pinching the bridge of his nose was not helping, he lowered his hand, forced open the eyes he had stupidly closed, and faced Beckett once again. "At any rate, what I fail to understand is how Malfoy managed to get inside if he was intending to set things up so he could capture me later," he said, rerouting the conversation back to the original topic.

Lawrence shrugged. "Maybe he didn't come here intending to use the sleeping spell. Before you joined us on Sunday, he just seemed interested in getting information, you know. Maybe he…well…sort of had the idea after you came in and then cast the spell on an impulse."

"Perhaps," said Severus, frowning, "but then why didn't your holy magic ward do something to him the instant he had the thought?"

"Probably because he wasn't trying to cast a killing curse, just a sleeping spell," said Lawrence. "The Sanctuary Ward is designed to prevent the entry of anyone who wants to harm or kill someone who has taken refuge inside, you know, since the church is supposed to be a place of sanctuary. Hence the name," he added, smiling. "And, to be completely honest, I really don't know what the ward would do to someone who suddenly went mental after coming inside and tried to murder someone. No one in my congregation has tried it yet, you know."

"Shocking."

"Isn't it?" said Lawrence, grinning a grin so evident of boundless energy that it drained Severus to simply look at his face. His eyelids felt like they were coated in stone, and fight it as he might, the encroaching fields of blackness in his vision only expanded. "Anyway, what Malfoy intended to harm you actually sort of helped you, you know, since the spell gave you a good night's – Severus!"

He scrambled out of his armchair and just managed to catch Snape – who had but for a thread of consciousness finally succumbed to the overpowering urge to fall asleep – before he collapsed face-first onto the table.

The jolt of an abruptly terminated fall jerked Severus from plummeting into complete oblivion, strengthening his thread of consciousness so that he could open his eyes. He stared at the strange, smooth brown surface lined with darker brown markings for he knew not how long before realising that he was staring at wood, and that the tip of his nose missed touching it by only a few centimetres.

The sound of a familiar voice fell on his ear, but it took every ounce of strength he had left to concentrate and understand the words. "…wha…ng…verus…what…wrong? Severus…you hear me? What's the matter with you?" Hands suddenly gently shoved his shoulders back, forcing him to sit upright, and he realised the wood he had been staring at was the table and that Lawrence was kneeling on one knee slightly to Snape's left. "What is the matter with you?" Lawrence repeated slowly, his forehead furrowed and his eyes wide in alarm.

"Tired," Severus rasped, not having the strength to form a more complex reply. His body lurched forward, as he almost did not have the strength to stay erect, but Lawrence tightened his grip on Severus's shoulders and pushed him into a vertical sitting position once again. The thought '_this is humiliating'_ tried to cross his mind, but only the word 'this' managed to complete the journey.

"You're tired?" said Lawrence, frowning. "But why? I'm not, and we both used the same teapot! We even drank about the same amount of tea, if I recall correctly; so there's no reason the spell should have affected you more, is there? … Oh bloody hell, I am such an _idiot_!" he swore a moment later, planting his left hand in the middle of Severus's chest so he could rummage around in his robe with his right. The angry tone and abrupt transference of his weight from two hands to one jarred Snape from slipping further into unconsciousness. He blinked heavily and focused his vision just as Lawrence drew his wand and pointed it at him. "_Finite Incantatem_!"

For a moment Severus felt no different. Then, ever so slowly, he felt the pressure to fall asleep lift from his mind, his shoulders, his entire body as though an invisible sun was burning away a thick fog layer by layer. Nearly five minutes later he could sit upright unaided and felt as energized as he had before he had started drinking the tainted tea, and though his energy level then had not been exceptionally high, it seemed immense in comparison to only five minutes prior.

"I am so sorry I didn't think to do that earlier," said Lawrence sheepishly, still kneeling on one knee beside Severus's chair. "You have my sincerest apologies."

Severus stared at him. Now that Beckett had done the spell, it seemed so obvious a thing to do that he felt exceedingly dim-witted for not having thought of it himself. "No need. It never even occurred to me to have you try Finite before now," he said, waving his hand dismissively.

"Yes, well, you were too tired to have thought of it, you know. I was just too stupid." He gave Severus a self-deprecating smile and then, leaning heavily on the arm of the chair, pulled himself to his feet. "Ouch," he hissed under his breath, giving his right kneecap a quick massage before fully straightening up. He turned to go sit back down in his chair, but paused midway and stared appraisingly at the teapot. "Well, it _did_ work on you" – he aimed this remark at Severus – "and anyway, it's worth a try, so" – he raised his wand – "_Finite Incantatem!_"

Nothing seemed to happen, so Severus withdrew his wand and pointed it at the teapot. "_Specialis Revelio_!" It did not glow with a silvery-blue light this time but merely sat on the table, a simple teapot once more.

"Splendid!" said Lawrence, smiling at Severus. "Thank God I didn't use it again until today. I would probably have collapsed in the kitchen and then woken up confused, never able to figure out – Ach!" he exclaimed. Severus leaned forward to see what he was looking at and caught a glimpse of the books – the thick black one lying face-down and open, crinkling the pages on which it rested, while the green one laid on top of it – before Lawrence moved to collect them, blocking his view. "It seems all my things have ended up on the floor this morning," he said with a shake of his head as he sat down. "First my scone, then my tea, now my books – I'm surprised I didn't knock anything off of the table when I flew out of my chair to catch you! Ah well; I suppose that it is sort of my fault everything ended up on the floor at all…" He trailed off and began smoothing the crinkled pages of the black book.

Severus, however, had stopped listening once Lawrence had mentioned his tea. The word had summoned the memory of the event, and something in the back of his mind kept insisting that this scene held the answer as to why he had grown tired again after the thunder while – _Wait! Lawrence knocked his tea off the chair arm because of the thunder, but afterward – That's it! _he mentally exclaimed, elated that his mind was working quickly once again.

"This really is no way for a pastor to treat a Bible, you know; or anyone, for that ma –"

"It was the thunder," said Snape.

Lawrence blinked at the interruption of his chattering and looked up at the interrupter. "Hmm? What about the thunder?"

"It was the thunder!" repeated Snape impatiently. "We had both been drinking the tea and getting tired, but it startled us enough to fight off the effects of the spell! And afterward –"

"– I didn't drink any more tea, but you did!" Lawrence smiled broadly at him. "Well, it's obvious that you're back to normal. It would have taken me much longer to figure that out, if I ever managed to figure it out at all."

Severus inwardly rolled his eyes at the self-deprecating statement, but impulsively decided to sidestep his habitual way of dealing with such an attitude and said gruffly, "You're a Slytherin, Lawrence. Of course you would have figured it out." It felt odd giving a compliment without first disguising it beneath layers of insult, but at the same time it also felt oddly…pleasant.

"Really? You think so?" said Lawrence, beaming at Snape so brightly that his face could have outshone the enchanted teapot.

Though Snape felt pleased that his words had elicited such a response, it also made him feel so uncomfortable that he cleared his throat and gestured at the books in Beckett's arms in a bid to change the subject. "So, ah, what books do you have there?"

If possible, Lawrence's face lit up even more. "Ah, yes, the books!" He separated the two and held up the thick black one. "This one is a Bible," he said rather needlessly, as the words 'Holy Bible' were written in large, ornate silver letters on the front. Beneath them were the words 'New International Version,' whatever that meant. "And this one…well…" Lawrence trailed off and frowned at the slender green volume, then tucked it between his left leg and the side of the chair. "This one you don't really need, actually, since you have the best of my redemption books already, and anyway, they make much more sense if you've read the Scriptures they're based off of." He smiled and then held out the Bible.

Severus took it from him and held the spine in one hand, letting it fall open so he could thumb through the surprisingly thin pages. If he had to read this entire book before he could truly understand the other books Lawrence had given him – which he had found fascinating regardless of not knowing the source on which they were based – and thus make an informed decision about this whole Christian business, he might as well send Dumbledore a letter asking for the rest of the year off.

"You don't need to read it all, you know," said Lawrence, seemingly reading Snape's mind. "I would recommend starting with Luke and John, the last two Gospels, so you can get acquainted with the type of person Christ was and the sort of things He did."

"Why the two of them?" asked Snape. "If they're all about him, wouldn't they all have the same basic information?"

"Yes, well, the first three Gospels – Matthew, Mark, and Luke – are very similar, since they were all based on another document called the Q Document. They do vary slightly, though, since they were written with different audiences in mind," said Lawrence, sounding very much in his element. "John was written from different sources, so it's quite different from the other three. More…er…theologically dense, I suppose you could say."

"Ah."

Lawrence smiled. "Anyway, once you've read those, I'd recommend reading Ephesians and Philippians next, and then 1 John. These books will give you the best understanding of the faith, and if you have any questions, I'll do my best to answer them for you."

Severus nodded, committing the names to memory, and opened the Bible to the table of contents to see on what page each book began. Immediately he noticed that all five of them were in the very back. "What about everything before those five?" he asked, carefully flipping through the pages.

"Ah, well, that's the Old Testament. Basically the Old Testament is the Jewish faith, and the New Testament is the Christian faith, which Christians believe is a fulfilment of Old Testament teachings and prophecies. You can ignore it for now, though there are some books, like Proverbs, that you might like. Do you have any more questions?"

Severus shook his head.

"Splendid!" said Lawrence. "I'll let you start reading, then, while I clean up this mess," he added, nodding at the tea things and levering himself out of his chair. Severus did not offer to help as Beckett collected the plate of scones and stacked Severus's plate with the unused ones before picking them up, assuming that he would only politely decline as before. True to his conjecture, Beckett said nothing as Severus rose and took his cloak from the back of the chair. He simply smiled at Snape as he walked by, humming as though he had forgotten all about their rather tense discussion on forgiveness and about Malfoy's enchanting of the teapot.

This observation reminded Severus of something that he had completely forgotten about. Even though he still thought that Lawrence had no business apologising for acting the way he did, Lawrence obviously felt that he needed Severus's pardon; and so, to give his friend peace of mind, he called out, "Wait."

Lawrence, who had been half way out the door, paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Hmm? Is something wrong?"

"No," said Severus, wondering how he should word what he wanted to say. "I simply wanted to say that…ah…I accept your apology," he finished, immediately berating himself for sounding so stupid.

Lawrence, however, gave him so huge a smile that it put both his earlier beam and the enchanted teapot to shame. "Really? You do? Splendid!" he exclaimed, looking both delighted and relieved. They stared at each other for a few seconds more before Lawrence, apparently remembering that his arms were full of dirty dishware and cold scones, gave Severus a final smile and disappeared around the jamb.

Severus stared at the empty space where Beckett had stood for a moment longer, feeling the same warm pleasure he had felt when he had complimented the pastor. Thinking sardonically that perhaps, like any other poison, being nice was not lethal in small doses, he smirked to himself and set a course for his guestroom.

Unlike Lawrence he had not forgotten about Malfoy, but in his good mood the threat the cunning Death Eater posed seemed somehow more distant and small. _Besides_, he thought as he sat down at the desk and flipped through the pages to the Gospel of Luke, _none of the Death Eaters – not even Malfoy – can harm me while I am inside the church._

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A/N: Phew! Once again, I'm sorry this took forever to get out. I truly am. It doesn't seem like almost half a year since I last updated, but the calendar proves me wrong. So, to those who are still reading this: thanks for still reading, even after it took nigh forever to post more. Big thanks go out to you!

So, we're finally back on the God track, which is what this story is supposed to be about anyway. Yay! It will probably very theological from here on out, so…yeah. It's pretty self-explanatory that a story about a character converting to Christianity would have a lot of spiritual concepts in it, no? :)

School is school, but in spite of that, I'll do my best to post in reasonable time. However, don't quote me on it. It will be posted when it is posted. On that note, if anyone is interested in being part of a mailing list so I can alert those who don't have accounts with when the story is updated (or to give out updates on progress in general), let me know. It will also let you contact me and (gently) pester me that yes, you would in fact like an update before you have grey hair and grandchildren (unless of course you already have those; then, let's say, before your hair is greyer and your grandchildren older. :) )

And on that note, that's it. Thanks again to anyone still reading!

Cheers,

Ballad


	13. Chapter 13: Suffer Not the Past

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad

Genre: Drama/Spiritual  
Pairings: None so far  
Timeline: SEVERELY AU fifth year; it takes little account of book 6, and possibly no account of book 7. Also, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin.  
Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )  
Disclaimer: See chapter 12 for the full disclaimer. Suffice to say I do not own any HP stuff; only my original characters.

A/N: So, finally it comes out! For those who read my profile, you'll know that this time I had a good reason for a while. For those who don't, my grandmother passed away in mid-May, and it was only my 4-person family cleaning out her house, taking care of hospital stuff, and every unfortunate thing that accompanies the unfortunate event of a death. After that, it I have only myself, writer's block, work, and laziness to blame…and the fact that the chapter, which started out as something completely different, decided to run away from me and morph into something more pivotal than I had planned, so …in case I haven't said it enough, I apologise dearly for the wait (though I think it's been established that waits in general aren't as few and far between as they necessarily should be :D ) and I hope you enjoy. And I also hope that you do not chuck those rotten tomatoes I'm sure you have in your fists at me, or the pitchforks either. :)

Warnings: There's a rather nasty word here, but it unfortunately fits the situation in which it is used, so…just thought I'd mention its existence beforehand as a buffer of sorts.

An infinite amount of thanks goes to Ominous Voices, my beta, who is still with me in spite of my slowness, and in spite of the fact that she suffered some tough hardships this season. She continued to support me on this with utmost patience and optimism. She's a blessing, and any mistakes you might notice, of whatever classification, are mine, and not hers. Thanks so much! :hug:

Chapter 13: Suffer Not the Past

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

You should not suffer the past. You should be able to wear it like a loose garment, take it off and let it drop.

_-__Eva Jessye_

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

_Unlike Lawrence he had not forgotten about Malfoy, but in his good mood the threat the cunning Death Eater posed seemed somehow more distant and small. _Besides_, he thought as he sat down at the desk and flipped through the pages to the Gospel of Luke, _none of the Death Eaters – not even Malfoy – can harm me while I am inside the church.

Outside, the rain continued to beat at the grass and trees and roof, though it had slackened considerably since earlier that morning. Patches of brilliant blue dotted the otherwise solid mass of slate-grey clouds hanging in the sky, foreshadowing the nearing end of the storm. In spite of the window to his left, Severus noticed none of this. He sat bent forward with his left elbow resting on the desk while his left hand his supported his head. Oblivious to all else his eyes focused only on the words in the Bible lying open before him, and he moved only to carefully turn the thin pages with the fingers of his right hand.

Ten minutes later and two chapters into the book of Luke, however, he sighed and lifted his eyes from the page. As he stared blankly at the equally blank stone wall roughly sixty centimetres from his nose, he allowed the thoughts pressing insistently at the back of his mind to drift to the forefront. He had never before read the story about the birth of John the Baptist, whoever indeed the man was, but he knew the story about the birth of Jesus very well. Though Severus usually made an effort not to dwell on memories from his childhood – he considered very little about that time in his life worth remembering, after all – he could not stem the flood of recollections reading the Christmas story had conjured and which now inundated his mind.

Seeing the tapestry of Jesus being crucified when Severus had first entered the church had reminded him of his mother telling him stories about Jesus. Now he recalled how every Christmas Eve, no matter how bitterly cold the weather, his mother had taken him to a small Anglican church a few blocks from their home on Spinner's End. For a time even his father – who had had little good to say about anything in general and religion in particular – accompanied them, though he did so reluctantly and only, as Severus later realised, to enforce the idea that their family was a normal Muggle family in spite of its two magical members.

Severus's eyes continued to stare at the wall, but his gaze turned increasingly inward as waves of memories inundated his mind and dragged his consciousness further into the depths of recollection. Even though Tobias Snape went with Eileen and Severus to the Christmas services – and occasionally to those held for Easter – simply to keep up appearances, he rarely, if ever, attended the weekly ones. More often than not, he instead attended whichever local pub opened the earliest. On the Sundays his father chose to worship whiskey rather than God (which tended to be most of them), his mother would dress him in his nicest clothes (which tended to be the ones with the fewest holes and patches and which were only slightly too large), and, eyes shining like they never did in his father's presence, sneak him out of their house and spend the morning in church. She seemed so much happier and smiled more there than she did at home, where his father's presence shaded her demeanour like a dark cloth tossed over a lamp. In spite of the many years that separated him from that time in his life, he could still remember how much strength and hope sitting in a worn pew in a dilapidated old building and singing hymns and listening to the equally dilapidated old vicar's sermons had given his mother. While he had been too young to fully understand the significance of what went on around him, he remembered feeling happy to be in the church simply because his mother was happy.

At the end of each service, Eileen always made sure to socialise just long enough so the other attendees would not find her impolite before excusing herself on the grounds that she needed to rush home and fix a delicious meal for her husband, who unfortunately had to work, or was sick or had a sick relative, or whatever excuse she could think to give for his absence. She would smile and hug a few people and force Severus to do the same (which, he recalled while unconsciously curling his upper lip, he hated but did anyway simply to please her) before hurrying him home, leaving her fellow churchgoers with the image of a selfless, faithful wife rather than one of a woman who feared the consequences of tarrying long outside her prison-home. Most of the time Tobias Snape would stumble his way through the door just as Eileen was setting the table; and though his father was usually too drunk to appreciate the meal, his mother continued to make it to hide the fact that she and Severus had ever left the house without him.

_If only he'd never found out_, thought Severus with a small sigh, unconsciously knotting his brows and dipping his head so that his hair curtained his face. At this thought the memory of the happiness he and his mother had enjoyed for far too short a time began fading. In its place details of the day his father had discovered his wife's small act of rebellion began rapidly coalescing in his mind's eye, dragging his consciousness so deeply into the past that he ceased to be aware of the present. Instead of sitting in his guestroom in a church in the increasingly-autumnal Scottish highlands –

– _he was walking briskly beside his mother through an English neighbourhood on a bright, slightly cloudy spring day. A rather polluted, foul-smelling river flowed sluggishly beside them, while behind them a solitary chimney jutted into the air, dominating the surrounding buildings. Many houses they passed wanted at least one repair, whether it was a roof that wanted mending, a lawn and hedges that wanted trimming, or a faded paintjob that wanted a new coating. Taking no notice of these small signs of disrepair and mild neglect, Severus and his mother strode onward, his hand held tightly in hers. _

_Moments later they turned down a narrow street, which a faded sign proclaimed as Spinner's End. Just visible at the street's conclusion was a small house that not only matched but far surpassed the needed repairs of all the surrounding homes, epitomising the classification of 'in desperate want.' At the sight of his house, Severus jerked his hand from his mother's grasp and darted a few paces ahead. "Hurry, Mummy!" When she failed to join him immediately he rushed back and yanked the sleeve of her dress, forcing her to take a few steps forward._

"_Severus –!"_

"_You're going too slow! We have to hurry!"_

His mother gently but firmly disengaged her sleeve from his grasp, but continued walking at the quicker pace he had set. "Calm down, Severus. It's not even noon yet. We have plenty of time." She threw a quick glance at her wrist watch as though making sure of this, then gave him a small, soothing smile and brushed her hand through his thick black hair, which hung in slightly lank waves just below his ears. Severus batted her hand away and, flitting ahead once again, whirled around and began walking backwards while glaring up at her.

"_But what if he gets there before us? What if he's already there?" He bunched his eyebrows together and frowned at her, imitating the way she looked when she was angry so he wouldn't look as anxious as he felt. It didn't work. Though his mother frowned down at him for a few seconds, lips set as though she was about to scold him, her gaze soon softened and she reached out to comb her fingers through his hair again. He huffed and twisted his head out of her reach and kept gazing up at her accusingly. She sighed but immediately afterward gave him another small, soothing smile._

"_It's going to be fine. Don't worry," she said, increasing her pace to match Severus's. Once she was walking beside him again she twisted his shoulder, forcing him to walk correctly. "We'll have dinner started long before your father even thinks about coming home, like always." He stared up at her doubtfully for a moment, but, glad that she was finally moving faster, decided not to argue with her._

"_What are we having for dinner?" he asked instead as they approached their house. With its overgrown, weed-infested lawn, wilting flowerbeds, and peeling paintjob, it appeared almost uninhabited. _

"_Oh, probably roast chicken again," she said absently as they climbed the short flight of steps in front of their house and came to a stop before the sun-bleached wooden front door. She paused to tuck escaped strands of hair back into her bun and then placed a hand to her throat, as though ensuring that her small, faux-pearl necklace still hung around her neck._

"_Again?" wailed Severus as she shifted her handbag from her left shoulder into the crook of her elbow and, after fumbling with the clasp for a second or so, opened it and began rummaging around inside. "But we had chicken last week! Why can't we have roast beef?"_

"_Because we don't have any, Severus," said his mother crisply, giving him a stern look as she plucked out a metal key ring. He knew by her tone that he shouldn't say anything more about it, and reached up and shyly took her hand in apology. She squeezed it gently to let him know that she forgave him, then let go so she could open the door._

"_And are we having potatoes again too?" he asked as she unlocked the bottom and, after hesitating a moment and taking in a deep breath, inserted the key into the top lock and twisted. She sighed as a muffled _click _sounded from inside, then looked down at him with a small, relieved smile._

"_Yes, of course we are."_

"_Can I mash them again?"_

"_Of course." She returned the key to her handbag, snapped it shut, and took his hand back into hers. Severus opened the door with his free hand and took a few steps inside before coming to an abrupt halt._

"_It smells nasty in here," he said as his mother, still holding his left hand, scooted him out of her way so she could close the door. Once it was shut she fastened the bottom lock with a dull _click_, leaving the top unlocked. "And why is it so dark? We opened all the curtains before we left so it would be nice when we got back, didn't we, Mummy?"_

"_And just where did you go?" asked a quiet, slightly-slurred voice. Severus jumped and squinted down the hall and his mother whirled around sharply, her breath catching in her throat. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness Severus made out his father standing perhaps ten feet away, and in what light that managed to filter inside through the veiled windows, he could see Tobias Snape's face. It was flushed crimson with anger and alcohol and his eyes were wide with fury. The sickening smell was emanating from him, wafting from an open, half-drunken bottle clenched tightly in his left fist.  
_

"_N-nowhere, Tobias," Severus's mother stammered. The hand that held Severus's hand clutched it tightly and began to tremble. He looked up at her, saw her white, frightened face, looked back at his father, angrier than Severus had ever seen him, and felt a rush of fear flood into him. His entire body began trembling and he took a step backward, pressing himself against his mother's leg and squeezing her hand like it was a life line.  
_

"_Like hell you've been nowhere!" snarled his father, glowering at them as though they were filthy thieves who had broken into his house rather than his own family. "I've told you time and again that you and that abnormal child of yours are not to leave the house unless I give you permission or go with you!" Chest heaving he lifted the bottle to his lips, drank down the remaining alcohol without once lifting his eyes from Severus and his mother, and then tossed it at them with a wordless roar.  
_

_His mother screamed and crouched down, taking Severus tightly in her arms and shielding him from the hail of glass slivers that exploded everywhere as the bottle shattered against the wall. Severus's heart battered his chest and he gave a choked sob. Not understanding what was going on, why his father was so angry, he clutched at his mother with all the strength in his small body, burying his face in her neck as tears of fear pricked his eyes and fell in hot streamlets down his cheeks.  
_

"_Tobias, please stop, you're scaring him!" said his mother in a trembling voice. "I took him to the little church, that's all I did, I took him –"  
_

_His father swore at her. "Where everyone could see the little freak? Damn you, Eileen, you stupid bitch! What if he did something – _abnormal_? Then what would you have done? You just don't think, you stupid, brainless –" So furious he couldn't even finish the sentence, he gave a wordless growl and launched himself at them, his face twisted in fury. Eileen shoved Severus behind her to protect him from his father, who yelled and shouted as she crouched there, sobbing and yelling back, while Severus pressed himself into the corner, huddling there, crying –_

Severus gave his head a violent shake and then dug his fingers into his eyes so that green and yellow and red and white began obscuring the image in his mind's eye. So intent was he on banishing what his mind had shown him that it took him a few moments to realise that his fingertips were damp. With a start he opened his eyes, flashes of multicoloured light staining his vision, and for a moment he stared uncomprehendingly at his fingertips before making the connection and realising that his eyes were wet with tears. Hot embarrassment flushed his face at reacting so strongly to a mere memory. _Stupid, overemotional fool!_ he growled at himself, flicking the teardrops from his fingers and then viciously swiping them from his eyes with a slightly trembling hand, which received a glower for its feebleness. _You are _exceedingly _lucky that no one saw you in such a ridiculous state! _he added, though the thought had scarcely crossed his mind before a spear of doubt at its truthfulness pierced his heart. What if Lawrence had wanted to talk to him and had come to the room just in time to see Severus snivelling like a child? What if he was still there, waiting for Severus to compose himself and stop acting like an idiot? Quickly he threw a glance over his hand at the doorway.

No one was there. _Stupid _and_ paranoid_, he thought at himself again, frowning and glaring inwardly. _What a delightful combination._

_Almost as delightful a combination as eager to please and insecure, wouldn't you say? _said the cynical inner voice. A tiny barb of guilt and discomfort prickled Severus's heart at this. It reminded him of the attitude he'd had on Monday, which had factored so prominently in the creation of the fiasco solved only a quarter hour ago.

_A fiasco which you were forgiven for, you know_, the inner voice that sounded like Lawrence said firmly.

_Yes, I…I _do_ know,_ thought Severus, hoping the repeated assertion would imprint the concept on his mind. It still felt odd to consider himself forgiven, as though the notion was an abstract painting whose subject he could not determine no matter how long he squinted at it or from how many different angles he tried to view it. In spite of not yet fully comprehending it, the reminder did manage to buoy his resolve. With a conviction that still felt somewhat forced and unnatural, he mentally plucked the barb of guilt from his heart, swept the cynical inner voice to the back of his mind (though he harboured no illusions that it would stay put), and turned his eyes back to the Bible. What he needed to focus on now, he told himself, was not the past and all its sundry mistakes and regrets but the future and the possibilities it held, including, perhaps, the possibility of redemption.

After taking a deep breath and steeling his mind against the return of inner critics, he began reading once again. Or rather, he _tried_ to begin reading once again. Though the inner critics remained silent, thoughts about his childhood stubbornly refused to return to the sea of unconsciousness from whence they had emerged and allow him to focus unhindered attention on finishing what remained of chapter two. _On the eighth day, when it was time to circumcise him, he was named Jesus, the name – his mother is standing at the sink washing dishes while he helps her dry them; her lips move silently for a minute or so, and then she sighs and glances furtively behind her at the dinner table where his father sits, glaring moodily at the stained wood while slowly nursing a bottle of whiskey, his second that evening – _Severus gave his head a small shake to flick the memory away, blinked harshly, and returned to reading. _– the name the angel had given him before he had been conceived. When the time of their purification according to – his mother is staring out of her bedroom window at a bright summer's day, holding what looks like a beaded necklace; she sighs, looking dejected and lonely, and doesn't notice him watching, wondering why she is so sad and if there is anything he can do to make her happy again – _

Severus sucked in an annoyed breath and grunted it back out. Jabbing his right index finger onto the page to hold his place, he closed his eyes, took in a couple of deep breaths, and then began calming his mind, clearing every thought from it as though slowly but firmly wiping an eraser across a densely marked-up chalkboard. Memories that wanted to be pondered fought back, stubbornly sketching traces of themselves back onto his mind the instant he had managed to clear it. Severus grunted again and scowled, but this surrender to emotion only gave the memories a foothold that they gleefully seized. A scene of his father shouting at his mother managed to paint itself across his mind's eye for a few breaths before he regained control of his emotions and managed to clear his mind once again, erasing the ambiguous memory before it could progress into assuredly negative specifics. Then, to prevent another breach from occurring, he set about strengthening his mental shields as though protecting his mind from assault by a skilled Legilimens rather than from assault by unpleasant memories.

He sat taking in deep, controlled breaths with his eyes closed in concentration for almost a minute afterward, reinforcing the shields where needed to ensure that they came as close to impenetrable as possible. Then, still breathing deeply, he slowly opened his eyes and saw his finger, almost as pale as the page, still marking his place in the Bible. Tentatively he lifted his finger from the text and finished reading the sentence he had been trying to read earlier, which described Joseph and Mary presenting the infant Jesus in Jerusalem and offering a sacrifice of two doves for him according to the Law of Moses – whatever _that_ was. Though he did not understand the ritual or the Law mentioned, the fact that no memories had interrupted his reading infused him with great satisfaction. With growing confidence he read a few more verses, and when the memories still failed to breach the fortress he'd erected around his mind, he continued reading with contented assurance that they would not bother him again.

Except that they did.

For a few peaceful minutes the mental fortress resisted the memories tugging at his consciousness for attention, allowing him to read without distraction. With the exception of the remainder of the temple presentation section _– Would it really have been too difficult to include a footnote explaining what the bloody Law of Moses is?_ he groused lightly to himself upon finishing it_ –_ the book's contents piqued his interest and occupied his mind enough to keep the assailing memories at bay. A wry smile even curved his lips when he read about how, upon returning to the Temple years later, the boy Jesus listened to the teachers and asked them questions in turn. _If only _my_ students listened to _me_ and showed such interest in learning,_ he thought. _It would certainly make my life more bearable_.

_Perhaps your students would be more interested in making your life more bearable if you were less interested in making their lives as _un_bearable as possible, _the cynical inner voice suggested. Instantly the wry smile reversed itself into a scowl and his right hand curled into a loose fist as a spike of annoyance surged through him, though he was largely unsurprised that the cynical voice had returned. Past experience, after all, dictated that it inevitably would, no matter how far into the recesses of his mind he banished it. Severus managed to feel irked for a few seconds more before a small, sharp feeling of unease about how quickly the voice had managed to come back punctured his displeasure. His fist tightened and his eyebrows shoved toward each other, furrowing his forehead, at the implication.

If an unwanted inner voice could penetrate his mental defences so easily, an equally unwanted memory could certainly do it as well.

Not particularly keen on re-experiencing the violation of his present by unsolicited intrusions from his past, Snape relaxed his fist and once again positioned his right index finger on the page to mark his place. He then closed his eyes and, frowning slightly in concentration, began strengthening even the smallest weaknesses in his mental defences wherever he perceived them, refortifying his entire Legilimency stronghold. When he was satisfied, perhaps a minute later, he slowly opened his eyes, hesitated a moment, and then continued on to chapter three, which began with the teachings of John the Baptist. The first few words he read slowly to ensure that his mental shields were properly functioning, and then he began reading at his usual moderate, detail-conscious pace when they continued to hold strong. As he finished reading the section, the frown of concentration morphed into a smirk. He was quite sure that there had been a general exhortation against self-righteousness in John's rebuke to the crowd at the river, and he was equally quite sure that not a few Gryffindors could do with applying it. Still smirking, he turned the page – and hit a snag.

Almost the entire first column of text contained a genealogy.

Snape grunted and narrowed his eyes at the page. _Wonderful,_ he thought, curling his upper lip derisively at the interruption of the interesting narrative and informative theology of previous pages by a dull list of ancient people long since dead and rotting. Almost immediately afterward, however, a small seed of guilt blossomed in his mind for scowling at a Bible in the same manner he scowled at nigh-on-incompetent student essays. A short sigh escaped his lips and he softened his gaze and smoothed out his brows. Once the little guilt blossom had withered away and vanished like ashes scattered by the wind, he commenced a long, hard stare at the tiny black printed words responsible for the sudden onslaught of inner conflict.

No force on heaven or earth could possibly persuade him to view the idea of reading the genealogy with anything remotely resembling curiosity. At the same time, however, the idea of skipping it over felt somehow …_wrong_. _You are being illogical_, he told himself_. It cannot possibly possess great importance, so simply skip over it! _This, however, did no good. The feeling of wrongness intensified the more he contemplated moving on to other sections, which all but promised to completely interest him (as opposed to this one, which all but promised to completely bore him). The feeling received additional support when the thought that Lawrence had not mentioned anything he could ignore occurred to him. This fact floated about his mind with airs of great importance for a few moments before the thought that Lawrence could simply have forgotten that Luke contained a genealogy, and had therefore failed to make mention of skip-able sections, entered his mind and usurped its short-lived glory. Severus smirked briefly at the point the new thought made, though the smirk took leave of his face almost as soon as it arrived. A small frown replaced it as he continued gazing intently at the page, still as stuck in the dilemma-that-should-not-have-been-a-dilemma-but-was-one-anyway as before.

The fingers of his left hand began lightly thrumming his head and his right thumb slowly began stroking the opposite page as he deliberated over whether or not to read it. A small part of him felt exceedingly stupid for creating an impasse out of so simple a situation. This small part expanded and swelled the longer he sat dithering until, mushrooming to critical proportions, it exploded and inundated his mind with exasperation. _Oh just read the bloody thing, you stupid fool,_ he growled at himself, _and_ _damned be your personal preferences to the contrary!_ He shook his head sharply to purge it of any lingering vestiges of stupidity, then heaved a rather martyr-like sigh, did not even attempt to suppress the thought '_this is going to be boring_' as it crossed his mind, and began to read the genealogy.

He managed to read four names from the list – which constituted approximately two lines of text – before his mind, rebelling against the utter dullness, began wandering; and his shields, destabilized by his wandering mind, began wavering; and the memories, detecting the increasing frailty of his mental fortress, struck. It crumbled and milliseconds later collapsed in a heap of mental rubble as a brigade of memories swarmed into his mind –

–_his mother is sitting at a table with her head in her hands, sobbing, her mouth moving silently; he is too old now to crawl into her lap and give her a hug, so he does not know how to comfort her, though he longs to; as he watches, hesitating, she reaches over and slowly closes the large book with small text and onion-skin thin pages that is sitting on the table near her and sobs even harder, though her lips become still – his mother is arguing with his father over the bottles of whiskey his father brought home instead of money, the second time that month; she flings open the pantry door and gestures angrily at the nearly empty shelves, and Severus, watching unseen from behind the jamb, hears his father swear foully and advance across the kitchen toward her, his fist raised; he runs back to his room before he sees more, and before his father can see him watching – his mother is arguing with his father over the time he spends at the pub when the lawn needs trimming and the roof needs repairing and the back window near the door is broken and needs a new pane – arguing, arguing, _always arguing – _his mother is standing at the sink, her face pinched and sour-looking, scouring the dishes with a washrag while his father sits nursing a bottle of whiskey at the kitchen table while reading the evening paper; as Severus helps her dry the dishes she softly mutters grievances against his father, against his father's 'kind', against her fate, against her God – _

Snarling an oath, Severus shoved himself upright with such force that he almost succeeding in knocking himself over backward. After balancing for a moment on its back legs, the front legs returned to the stone floor with an emphatic WHUMP that he was certain Lawrence had heard. He jerked a trembling hand roughly through his hair and, breathing deeply from anger and frustration (and, had he cared to admit it, distress), waited expectantly for his friend's face to peek around the jamb and ask what was wrong and if he could help in any way.

When Lawrence's footsteps failed to sound in the hallway almost ten seconds later, however, Snape made a sound halfway between a grunt and a sigh and tightly crossed his arms across his chest and crossed his legs at the knee. For almost a quarter minute he continued to suck in large breaths before the fierce emotions finally began to subside and their physical manifestations to dwindle. A half minute or so later he could breathe normally once again, and his mind had returned to the blissful state of emotional neutrality-bordering-on-cynicism in which it usually functioned.

Before long he realised that he was still sitting like a tightly coiled spring. With a sigh that was part, if not mostly, groan, he loosened his limbs and allowed the tension to drain out of them, slumping back in his chair until the toes of his boots brushed the wall and his head rested, rather uncomfortably, on the back of the chair. As his black eyes stared up at the grey stones of the ceiling, he slowly lifted both hands and began kneading his aching temples

While he lolled in his chair and gave himself massage therapy, Severus found himself – and not for the first time – ruing the fact that he possessed so near-flawless and extensive a memory. Even though it had saved his life on more than one occasion and figured prominently in his success as a Potions Master, he still vacillated between viewing his ability to remember almost everything he had ever experienced as either a blessing disguised as a curse or a curse disguised as a blessing.

Severus squinted at the ceiling as he absently began mulling over which it was, but, quickly growing bored with staring at blank stone, he twisted his head to the left and transferred his gaze to the wall with the window. His eyebrows rose in mild surprise to see that the storm, which had raged and thundered its wrath throughout his discussion with Lawrence, appeared to be dying. Rain that had once furiously battered the window panes as though determined to shatter the glass now meekly sprinkled the trees, tombstones and grass, and a few weak, nebulous sunbeams had even managed to break through the clouds in a few places off in the distance.

He watched the death throes of the storm for a few moments longer before a small twinge of pain in his temples reminded him that he ought to be giving them attention instead of the scenery. Allowing his eyes to glaze over as his fingers returned to their pain-relieving duties, he turned his mind back to the problem – and spent a grand total of two seconds pondering it before deciding that it ranked exceedingly low on his List of Important Things to Ponder. Instead, he decided to simply write off the ability as a double-edged sword – which, considering the frequency with which strikingly vivid negative recollections dropped in for visits, he would happily sell to the highest bidder with only the tiniest ounce of remorse.

_If indeed _that_ much_, he thought with a rather grumpy sigh. It morphed into a hum of approval as his fingers gave his temples one last vigorous rub, and then, satisfied with the job they'd done there, relocated to his brows and began massaging away the stiffness with slow, rhythmic circles. He was in the midst of absently watching the still-feisty wind shred a large, grey cloud into feathery silver wisps between the swaying branches of a birch tree when the thought '_Lawrence is so bloody lucky he can hardly remember what he had for breakfast'_ suddenly crossed his mind.

Severus couldn't help smirking at the thought even though it danced unsteadily on the ambiguous line that divides "unkind" from "amusing." Regardless of which of the two it more closely resembled, the thought did possess ample truth to support it. With the exception of the personal struggles Lawrence had shared with him earlier, the man's past, both the recent and more erstwhile, did not seem to bother him much. Nor did he seem to bother much thinking on it, if the memories Severus had salvaged from the depths of Beckett's head on Sunday afternoon served as a general indicator of the way his mind functioned. They had had a – a _dry_ feel to them, a texture of antiquity, as though Lawrence had not thought on them for years and they had not invaded his consciousness for as long a time; like yellowing photographs pulled from a forgotten album accidentally discovered beneath layers of accumulated clutter.

His smirk and amusement both began fading, however, as a small, miserable little emotion that could only be described as a non-malignant form of jealousy started seeping into his heart. _He's so bloody lucky_, Snape thought again with a mental sigh. His brows tried to furrow, but his fingers, intent upon completing their tension-relieving duties, automatically shoved them apart and began kneading them with larger, more vigorous circles.Oblivious to the actions of his body, Severus continued brooding. _He probably doesn't consider his inability to remember what he stuffed into his mouth the day before – or even hours prior – as a boon to his health and happiness, though. He'd probably agree to switch memories with me in less than half a heartbeat if given half the chance. _Another sigh escaped his lips, and, quite without his conscious notice, his eyes shifted from the cloud (which now resembled strips of ragged-edged bandages) to alight on a slightly-cracked stone in the wall a few centimetres to the right of the window. _And I…I would give him the entire chance in less than a quarter heartbeat if I could._

An ironic smile twisted his lips at this. Of the precious few people on earth who were blessed with near-perfect memories, how many of them even remotely considered envying those unfortunate enough to possess ones that were fuzzy and faulty at best? _Probably just one, _he thought sardonically at himself.

_And It would behove that one to be more grateful, _said the inner voice that sounded like Albus Dumbledore. In spite of his fingers' ministrations, Snape's brows managed to shove toward each other. _Come, Severus. Why must you wallow in self-pity and wish to be rid of an ability that thousands of people would sacrifice anything to have?_

_Because you're an ingrate,_ whispered the cynical inner voice, gleefully latching onto the small kernel of guilt the Dumbledore voice's words had planted in Severus's heart. _Gratitude has always been beyond _you_. _

_Well, considering the content of much of your memories you really can't blame yourself, you know,_ said the Lawrence inner voice, cutting through the cynical inner voice's invective like a ray of sunshine beaming through a bog of gloom. _If most people's recollections were as traumatising as yours, which make most people's most outrageous nightmares seem tame, they'd likely want a bad memory too, don't you think? _

_Perhaps_, thought Snape, and, in spite of the kernel of guilt attempting to germinate in his heart, a small smile curved the corners of his mouth. Neither of the other two voices offered rebuttals to the Lawrence-voice's declarations, which made the small smile bloom to a smirk of satisfaction at finally having won a round of Arguing With Himself. The question of whether this qualified him for a one-way journey to the St. Mungo's long-term mental care ward kindled a thought in his mind, but it burned there only briefly before he snuffed it out, and the small kernel of guilt along with it.

Contrary to the cynical inner voice's accusation, Severus did, in point of fact, know how to feel grateful. He knew he had only emerged victorious in his inner quarrel because he'd had an ally, of which he was usually deficient. It felt rather…_pleasant_ to have such a friendly voice inside his head, rather than only the slew of cynical, negative, self-destructive enemies that habitually resided within his mind. Having one of his many inner voices sound like Lawrence was almost as good as having the pastor himself in the room, spouting kindness and cheerfulness and encouragement –

"My sincerest apologies for interrupting you, Severus, but – is something wrong?"

Though having the pastor in the room was not necessarily an entirely good thing, after all, as it would mean having to endure the rather taxing air of apology that seemed to surround him, not to mention having to tolerate his unparalleled ability to ask stupid questions and make asinine commentary, which began grating on Snape's nerves after mere seconds of exposure to –

"Severus?"

With a violent start Severus realised that the Lawrence-voice currently speaking did not, in point fact, reside inside his head but belonged to the man himself – who, according to the direction of his voice, was currently standing outside in the corridor. He jerked halfway upright, ignoring the shrieking bursts of pain from muscles protesting their abrupt realignment, and nearly cricked his neck whipping his head around to face the doorway.

The top half of Lawrence leaned around the jamb, the fingers of his right hand curled along the edge of the frame and his left hand rounded in a loose fist as though he had just used it to knock. His furrowed brows created a field of small creases across his forehead, and the downward tilt of his lips and the concerned glint in his eyes reminded Severus uncomfortably of the expression most people wore when in the presence of a mentally disturbed person.

Fearing that Lawrence, upon finding him in a position more parallel with than perpendicular to the floor, had arrived at the conclusion that Snape had found the Bible so dull that he had fallen asleep while reading it, Snape corrected his posture from startled languidness to ramrod rigidity so quickly it seemed as though someone had Transfigured his spine into a steel rod. His mind hurtled back to the conversation he thought had occurred entirely in his head, replayed it, and then careered back to the present so he could offer a rather belated reply to Beckett's question. "Everything is perfectly fine," he said, giving a soft cough and unconsciously folding his arms across his chest. Lawrence's eyebrows inched toward his hairline as though politely doubtful of this assertion. Feeling that he should say something more before Lawrence slowly backed out of the room and fled to the fireplace to fire call St. Mungo's and summon an army of Mental Ward Healers to haul him off, Severus added, "You weren't interrupting anything. I was simply indulging in, ah, in some rather pointless wool-gathering."

"Ah," said Lawrence. He continued to stare at Severus as though attempting to divine the truth of this statement, much like he had done earlier that morning when Severus had insisted that all was well after Lawrence had interrupted similar sessions of brooding. Severus attempted to erect his usual exterior of cool, collected calm and gaze back with enough self-confident poise to sustain the truth of his claim, but found himself curiously incapable of looking his friend directly in the eye. The small kernel of guilt sprouted once again in his heart, though this time it was accompanied by a formidable retinue of suitability that prevented him from sweeping it aside. Getting caught lolling about in a chair while his mind skipped merrily down paths of pointless ponderings, paused to frolic in meadows of decidedly irrelevant matters, and engaged in equally inappropriate debates with any enemies it chanced to meet along the way made him feel like a schoolboy caught engaging in wayward activity when he was supposed to be studying. The Bible lying open on the desk in the manner of an ignored textbook abandoned in lieu of more engaging pursuits only served to heighten the similarity.

It seemed to take an epoch for these feelings to occur and the thoughts to cross his mind, and Severus, who was fighting the urge to bow his head and allow his hair to veil his face, felt as though he had been staring at a point just above Lawrence's right eyebrow for an eternity. In reality, however, no more than four or five seconds passed after Lawrence's maddeningly ambiguous "ah" before the corners of his mouth slanted upward into a small smile. The little ridges in his forehead smoothed over, and much, though not all, of the glittering light of concern melted from his eyes. It left Severus feeling exceedingly self-conscious, but he could not fault the man for still feeling worried. Considering the number of times Lawrence had jolted him from intense, brooding reveries that morning, it seemed only natural for him to exhibit anxiety about Severus's mental health.

"Well," said Lawrence as he straightened from leaning around the jamb and stepped just inside the chamber with the air of an apologetic intruder, "I promise I won't interrupt your wool-gathering for too long. You see, I started washing the dishes from breakfast, and it reminded me that I had sent a tray with tea and a plate of sandwiches to you on…erm…earlier this week." A tinge of carnation brushed his cheeks and his hand twitched slightly like it wanted to fiddle with his glasses, as though even roundabout references to Monday's incident still, in spite of reconciliation, managed to discomfit him. "Anyway," he said, flashing Severus a smaller, gentler version of his signature self-deprecating grin, "I thought that, since I was sort of already doing dishes, I should stop by and collect the tray so I could wash the plate and the tea things too."

Only the muted howl of dying storm winds waging a final battle against the world filled the room for the first few heartbeats after Beckett concluded his explanation. Severus, who had expected Lawrence to announce anything except the desire to collect a tea tray so he could do dishes, lowered his gaze from the spot above the man's eyebrow and, for the first time in long, tortuous seconds, succeeded in looking him straight in the eye. "Oh?" he said finally, raising his right eyebrow in surprise.

The subtle carnation hue of Beckett's cheeks deepened to a darker shade of rose as though he recognised just how droll his request sounded. His small self-deprecating smile intensified, spreading to its usual wide breadth. "Yes, well, do you mind if I take it?" he asked, hesitantly stepping farther into the room. Sheepish brown eyes stared into incredulous black ones for a moment before Severus transferred his gaze to the item in question. It rested on the desk near the upper-right corner of the open Bible. The crumb-dusted china sandwich plate lay to the left of the empty green vine-patterned teapot, while the teacup, which still contained the remains of his early-morning mint tea and boasted an additional pale yellow halo where the vestiges had stained the porcelain, sat nestled on its saucer precariously near the edge of the tray where he'd abandoned it after the arrival of Lawrence's invitation.

Feeling that much ado was being made about nothing but dirty dishware, Snape raised his other eyebrow and looked back at the pastor with some amount of exasperation. "It's your tray, Lawrence. If you wanted it, why didn't you simply come and take it?"

Beckett began fiddling with his glasses. "Ah, well, because I wanted to make sure that you weren't using it anymore first. It would have been incredibly rude of me to just barge in here and whisk it away without so much as asking if you were finished with it, you know."

Severus mastered the urge to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb at this flagrant display of shameless over-consideration. "You gave this entirely too much thought," he said flatly, arching both eyebrows and quirking his lips into a sardonic smirk. Lawrence's sheepish, self-deprecating smile converted into another of his principal expressions: an amused grin.

"Now really!" he said laughingly, propping his hands on his hips. "I never thought I'd hear _you_ accuse _me_ of thinking too much!"

Severus's smirk broadened. "Miracles, as your Bible can attest, do occur," he drawled. His words elicited a soft chuckle from Lawrence, which in turn caused the right corner of Severus's smirk to curve slightly higher than the other. A heartbeat passed in which both men gazed at each other in shared genial humour. Within that heartbeat, Severus – who still felt guilty about passively allowing memories from his past to invade his mind and torment him when he was supposed to be improving his present in the hopes of perhaps positively altering his future – suddenly decided that he could make rather meagre amends for his behaviour by helping Lawrence, and this by bringing the tray to him instead of making him retrieve it himself.

_Miracles apparently _do_ occur if _you _are voluntarily doing something nice for someone else, _remarked the cynical inner voice as Severus twisted to face the tray and, with his slender, long-fingered right hand, nudged the teacup from its point at the outer edge to join its mates in the centre. Inwardly Severus frowned at the resurgence of his greatest inner enemy, which apparently had broken out of its prison at the fringe of his mind with much greater ease than necessarily desirable._ The last I checked,_ it continued,_ all Blatant Acts of Consideration And/Or Helpfulness were filed under 'Anathema.'_

_Shut up_, snapped Severus, hardly in the mood to have his lesser points thrust in his face whilst attempting to prove that he could, in point of fact, overcome some of said lesser points if he caught the notion. He felt as though he had done it thousands of times that morning alone as he mechanically re-banished the inner voice back to exile at the recesses of thought, wondering with miffed exasperation if he should even continue bothering. A mental sigh filled his mind as he gently lifted the tray from the desk, careful to avoid sending any of its delicate passengers toppling over an edge where they would shatter on the stone floor. Even though the motivation behind his deed would never crystallize in Lawrence's mind – nor, in point of fact, did he want it to, – Severus still felt the need to act and, at least in his own mind, thus absolve himself of his careless waste of time, regardless of how many cynical inner voices questioned his actions. Slowly he turned in Lawrence's direction and cautiously scooted his chair back from the desk so he could stand up and carry out his Good Deed of the Day.

His bottom managed to rise approximately five centimetres from the seat before Beckett, deducing his intent, took two strides forward and came to a halt near his elbow.

"Ah, let me take that," he said good-naturedly, nimbly plucking the tray out of Severus's grasp before Severus could utter even the beginnings of a protest.

Snape stared at his empty hands for a moment, feeling that Beckett's brawny over-helpfulness had just robbed his own scrawny under-helpfulness of an opportunity to flex its admittedly paltry muscles. For a split second longer he marvelled at the fact that he felt distinctly (though only mildly) irked about it before a platoon of embarrassment and disgust at feeling irked about something so trivial stormed his heart and evicted the peculiar, put-out emotion that had decided to set up residence there.

Satisfied at having expelled the bothersome little feeling, he transferred his gaze from his hands to the unwittingly offending, amiably smiling face and lifted his left eyebrow at it in exasperated resignation as he reunited his bottom with the chair. As he did so, an image of one of the well-intentioned but intolerably servile house elves at Hogwarts – who, in spite of the invective he usually served them, never missed an opportunity to shove various foods and drinks at him if they saw so much as the hem of his cloak sweep round a corner – suddenly popped into his head. With many of them possessing long, sharp noses and bulbous eyes, they bore more than a passing resemblance to Beckett. "If you were any shorter I'd mistake you for a house elf," he said dryly, crossing his arms lightly over his chest to subtly hint that he was somewhat miffed at Beckett, though the motion also served to physically reinforce his mental efforts to barricade his heart from the little put-out feeling trying to creep back inside.

"Ah ha, ha, ha" said Lawrence flatly, arching his own left eyebrow in a disturbingly accurate imitation of Severus's expression, though two little crimson roses blooming in his cheeks prevented him from achieving an exact reflection. A beat later he further ruined the imitation by allowing it to melt into another of his sheepish grins. "To be completely honest, though, I do enjoy helping people as much as most house elves seem to, you know, so I suppose it _is_ sort of an accurate insult."

Severus bent his other eyebrow. "And must we be as insufferably helpful as a house elf all the bloody time?"

Lawrence flashed him a cheery idiot grin, either blissfully ignoring the fact that Snape had insulted him or choosing to selectively interpret the insult as a compliment instead. "Why, of course," he said, and then, as a devilish glint invaded his eyes and his grin rapidly acquired the intensity of a small star, he added, "As the bloody pastor of a bloody church, it _is_ sort of my job, you know." Severus made a show of rolling his eyes and groaned loudly in (only partly) fake aggravation, but did not reach for his wand to fulfil his threat to Obliviate Lawrence if he ever used the phrase again. He had, after all, more or less invited it to pop out of Lawrence's mouth by employing the swear first, and had therefore brought the misery of its resurgence crashing down onto his own head.

Beckett grinned at him a moment longer, his smile teetering on the edge of smirk-dom as though he knew the thoughts crossing Severus's mind and found them exceedingly entertaining, before all mischievousness and playfulness drained from his grin and his eyes and gentle kindness re-established its supreme reign. "Anyway, it's also one of my spiritual gifts, you know, helping people –" He clipped the last word short and blinked as though a thought had suddenly popped into his head. "Ah, that reminds me! Speaking of spiritual things, what do you think of Luke so far?"

Severus's admittedly short though reasonably extensive knowledge of and experience with Beckett's habits allowed him to reduce the time he spent staring at his friend, taken aback at the abrupt shift in both conversational mood and subject, to roughly half of a second instead of a whole one or more. In the half-second his familiarity saved him he quickly decided that he was, in point of fact, not particularly keen on revealing just how little he'd actually read in the comparatively long amount of time that had passed since he had returned to his guestroom.

On the pretence of shifting into a more comfortable position, he twisted his body so that it impeded Lawrence's view of the desk and its residents. "For the most part I've found it rather fascinating," he said truthfully. For a moment he paused, deliberating on whether or not to voice his disapproval of a certain section before deciding that Lawrence wanted his honest opinions, not insincere platitudes, and that if he didn't like what Severus had to say, he had only himself to blame for asking. And so, while ignoring a small inner voice that suggested needing to vent his spleen on someone else guided this decision rather than a desire to provide honest feedback, he added (in perhaps a more plaintive, accusatory tone than necessarily intended), "Except, however, for the genealogy at the end of chapter three, which I found exceedingly dull and pointless."

A small, amused smile at Snape's less-than-flattering choice of adjectives painted itself across Lawrence's face. "Yes, well, you could probably have skipped that part, you know."

"Oh?" said Severus, infusing the word with as much nonchalance as he could muster while inwardly the words _I bloody knew it!_ ricocheted through his mind in savage triumph. Instantly he vowed to skip the remainder, rationalising his decision on the basis that he had not yet committed an act so heinous that it warranted continued torture as punishment.

Lawrence nodded. "It's really only important to those who actually know who most of those people were, who are themselves important mostly for tracing Christ's lineage back to David, the second king of Israel, who it was prophesied would be the ancestor of the Messiah." He blinked. "Which, I suppose, is sort of more than you really needed – or wanted – to know, but, well…" His voice trailed off and he smiled and shrugged. The teapot shifted at the motion, and the soft _whisk_ of porcelain gliding a few millimetres toward the edge of the tray reminded him of his burden.

"Anyway, now that I'm taking this out of your way, you can use more of the desk instead of being cramped into one wee little section." As he began back-pedalling toward the doorway he bestowed an amiable beam upon Severus, though it possessed a faint self-deprecating shadow beneath its sunny exterior. "Again, you have my sincerest apologies for interrupting you, Severus. I'll just – ah! So _that's _where they are!" After pausing for a second in mid back-pedal, one foot suspended above the floor, Beckett changed the foot's intended landing place and stepped toward a destination somewhere behind Severus.

Possessing not even the slightest inkling as to what Beckett was talking about, Severus swiftly threw a glance over his shoulder in time to see him shift the tray to rest in the crook of his left arm as he came to a halt in front of the bed, his back to Snape. He bent at the waist to retrieve something from the floor, expertly balancing every item on the tray with easy perfection akin to that of an experienced waiter. A crinkling noise ensued. Instantly Severus's mind conjured an image of the bag of clothing, which, after being shuffled about the room in the course of days since Monday, had finally come to rest on the floor at the foot of the bed. _What in Merlin's name does he want with a lot of soiled robes?_ he thought, rotating his upper body to improve his view as Lawrence straightened up and placed the slightly abused-looking brown paper sack on the bed.

As though Severus's mystified stare was burning a hole between his shoulder blades, Lawrence turned slightly in his direction while un-scrunching the crumpled top of the bag with his free right hand. "I was looking for these yesterday, you know," he explained as his hand rummaged around inside. "I completely forgot that I lent them to you." Pale pink dyed his cheeks, staining the tips of an embarrassed smile. Exactly what Lawrence was talking about dawned on Snape like sunlight breaking over the night-dark horizon just as the man uttered a pleased "Ah!" and tugged what looked like a black denim pant leg from the sack's interior.

Severus's mind served the memory of running afoul of Beckett's corrosive Potions mess and subsequently having to borrow a pair of black denim pants and a black wool Muggle turtleneck piping hot and paired with a heaping side of idiocy. _Stupid!_ he barked at himself, pressing his lips into a tight, disgusted line as Lawrence hunted around for the other half of the pants, all the while softly humming a cheerful tune. _You had to dig _under_ them to get to your second set of new robes! You should have noticed and returned them to his room then! _This self-berating diatribe would assuredly have continued and would more than likely have escalated to greater heights of derision had the inner Lawrence-voice not pointed out that he was_ sort of making a big deal out of nothing, you know. _Grudgingly he acknowledged that the voice had a point, and with a grunted huff he just as grudgingly decided to forgive himself his blunder, allowing the incident to pass away (or, rather, chucking it unceremoniously from his mind) and thrusting the remaining barbs of invective back into his extensive repertoire until an occasion more worthy of their services arose and justified their employment.

By the time he had finished lashing himself over his lack of observation and common sense, Lawrence had extricated the pair of pants from the sack, laid them in a wrinkly attempt at folding beside it, and was in the midst of removing the black turtleneck. With a firm but gentle yank it emerged, though it brought along company as it did so. "Ah – sorry Severus," said Lawrence, immediately attempting to untangle the turtleneck from its hitch-hiking companion as best he could with only one hand.

Brimming with exasperated amazement at what Lawrence deemed worth apologising for (and sardonically wondering if he would act contrite for breathing if someone announced they were offended by his existence), Severus rolled his eyes at the impartial ceiling and waved his hand dismissively before realising that Beckett could not, in point of fact, see either gesture. "There is no need to apologise," he said – or rather, sighed in a wearily annoyed, unenthusiastic near-monotone – as Lawrence, having separated the turtleneck from the black robe that had followed it out, breathed a light, cheery "Ah!" of victory.

"Well, maybe not," Beckett said a moment later in answer to Snape's statement, turning slightly toward him while simultaneously stuffing the robe back into the sack from whence it came, "but –" He broke off, mercifully sparing Snape from making acquaintances with an assuredly illogical defence of needless apologising, and lifted the robe toward his face, peering at it with a frown. "This is still stained," he said in surprise, turning toward Severus and holding up the robe, which indeed still sported the crusty yellowish blemish courtesy of Monday's Potions disaster. "I noticed you were wearing your second set of new robes, but…well, I suppose I assumed you had gotten the first pair to come clean." Severus's mild surprise at Lawrence having noticed this when the only real difference between the soiled robes and the set he now wore amounted to a row of small silver buttons running down the front – not to mention the fact that their often-intense discussion that morning had involved much staring at the floor and crossing of arms from both parties – must have shown on his face, for Beckett gave him a small, amused smile. "I'm stupid, you know, not unobservant," he said cheekily.

Making a mental note to better control his facial muscles and thus veil his emotions (a habit that seemed to have relapsed since his discovery as a spy and subsequent advent of his relatively quiet holiday-of-sorts), Severus gave Lawrence's comment a quick smirk and then rearranged his features into slightly frowning neutrality. "I tried everything I could think of to clean it, but that stain simply refuses to come off. Hot water, magic, hot water _and_ magic; not even scrubbing it by hand under the spigot made so much as a difference," he said, conveniently forgetting to mention that swearing profusely and rather colourfully at the robe during the entire attempted-and-ultimately-unsuccessful cleaning process had not worked wonders either.

"Hmm…" said Lawrence thoughtfully. His brows crept closer to each other as he squinted down at the stain and rubbed his right thumb experimentally across it. A few medium-sized yellow flakes crumbled off and drifted heavily to the floor, but the dried botched potion stubbornly insisted on remaining attached to the robe as though the substance had fused to the fibres. Even picking at it with his fingernail garnered similar results. Small wispy flecks floated in switchback descent to settle on the stone, but nothing larger volunteered to accompany them.

Severus silently observed as his friend performed his stain-removing experiments, reasoning that allowing Beckett to assess the problem hands-on rather than simply informing him that such ministrations were, in point of fact, futile, would perhaps enable him to suggest a knowledgeable solution. As he watched Lawrence turn the robe over in his hands and pick at various sections of the stain from different angles, frowning all the while at it in concentration, Severus mentally shunted aside a small inner voice that suggested he did not inform Lawrence of the pointlessness of trying to manually remove the blemish simply because part of him still begrudged Lawrence for creating the disaster that had spewed onto the robe in the first place. The voice, however, refused to surrender and wander off into the realms of his unconscious. Claiming alliance with the side of right, it rallied similar voices to its cause and together with them stormed his mind, bringing along a small regiment of guilt for still blaming Lawrence for what had been an accident – albeit, in Severus's firm opinion, an exceedingly avoidable one.

"Hmm…" said Lawrence again, twisting slowly toward Snape and taking a few absent-minded steps in his direction. "Did you try soap at all?" he asked as he finally looked up from the robe, peering over the rims of his glasses at Snape.

"Soap?" Severus repeated. Lawrence nodded. Severus grunted with slight impatience, frowned, and made to open his mouth to declare that of _course_ he had tried soap and that it too had failed, but before his bottom lip had separated more than a millimetre from the top he realised with a jolt that he had, in point of fact, _not_ attempted to use soap at all: not with magic, water, magic _and_ water, or simply by itself.

Immediately Severus felt seven times as stupid as upon discovering that he had not returned the borrowed clothes. _Imbecile_! he snarled at himself, severely perturbed at his current track record of thinking almost as illogically as a certain pastor. From the physical – and emotional – vantage point of Wednesday, scrubbing the robe with soap seemed the most exceedingly obvious course of action to pursue when attempting to oust the stain. _It should have been the first solution that occurred to you!_ he continued, and again would likely have happily continued impaling himself on barbs of invective – which he had conveniently summoned from their exile in his repertoire – had the inner Lawrence-voice not once again intervened.

_You really can't blame yourself, you know, since you _were_ sort of in an emotionally dishevelled state of mind at the time, _it said. _And anyway, Lawrence never told you he had soap to begin with, so it's actually completely reasonable that you wouldn't have thought of using it to get rid of the stain, you know._

_Hmph, _snorted Snape inwardly. Though he realised that the voice did, in fact, have a point, his heightened irritation at his own stupidity prevailed over any inclination to listen to its reasoning and crushed any desire he might have had to magnanimously forgive himself a second time. _Be that as it may_, _I still should have been able to think of the most obvious solution regardless of what I happened to be _feeling _at the moment, _he retorted, his tone of thought verging on contemptuous.

_Forgive me, but, well, you sort of _didn't_ think of it regardless of whether or not you should have done_, said the Lawrence-voice with a trifle more boldness than the pastor himself usually displayed. _Anyway, it's already been done. Getting angry at yourself over something you can't change makes no sense, you know._ Severus harrumphed again but, not feeling particularly keen on suffering further argumentative defeat by an inner voice inspired by a man who proudly admitted to harbouring illogical thought processes, did not supply a retort.

Though still fairly bothered at himself, Severus, for what he dearly hoped was the final time, withdrew from his inner battlefield and shifted his awareness back to the outer world with an only slightly-sulky sigh. The real Lawrence – who had not stopped talking about the stain since Severus's inner debate had started – was still chatting away, perfectly oblivious to the fact that not a single word he'd said had registered in his audience's mind. At precisely the same moment that Severus reacquainted his attention with reality, however, Lawrence said something that roughly jerked any strands of attention still lingering about inside Severus's head fully into the present.

"Well, I _suppose_ I can wash it along with my own laundry," said Lawrence, though his tone leaned more toward finite decision rather than musing deliberation. Immediately after he spoke his expression brightened as though the idea pleased him infinitely. A small, happy smile graced his countenance, replacing the contemplative frown of moments prior, as he glanced over at Severus to gauge his reaction to this announcement. Said reaction involved Severus staring back at Beckett in a combination of discomfited embarrassment and simple caught-off-guardedness at the thoughtful though (in his opinion) faintly servant-like offer (a reaction which, he privately felt afterward, his knowledge of and experience with Lawrence and his ways should have prevented).

Apparently interpreting Severus's lack of a verbal response as an indication that Severus doubted his ability to do something as simple as a load of laundry, Lawrence's smile acquired a drop of earnestness. "Even though I'm not powerfully magical I've always been good at charms, you know. They're sort of my speciality, especially cleaning charms, and even if those don't work the soap will," he said, strongly reminding Severus of a used-broom salesman (though an honest one) trying to prevent hesitant customers from leaving. "And anyway, I had already planned on doing laundry today, so it wouldn't really be any trouble to add it to my load, you know, especially since I'm responsible for the robe being stained in the first place." The seemingly ever-present carnation flush highlighted his cheeks once again, though it faded almost an instant later when he blinked as though an idea had popped into his head. "In fact," he said, his smile and eyebrows perking up as though the idea was, in fact, a very good one, "I could probably just make a cleaning day of it and clean the sanctuary as well. I've been meaning to do it for a few months now, you know, but…well…I just sort of never got around to doing it." He flushed again slightly at this admission and made to fiddle with his glasses, but raised the hand roughly a centimetre before remembering that it had more important duties to uphold, and so ceased the motion.

Throughout Lawrence's speech Severus's right-hand fingers lightly thrummed his arm as he waited for a chance to get a word in edgewise, wondering with incredulous impatience when the need to breathe would force Beckett to stop talking. Once he did Severus took a breath of his own to refuse the offer on the basis that, though exceedingly kind, it was ultimately unnecessary. Severus could, after all, clean the robe himself, as it was _his _robe to begin with. A small part of him, however, refused to participate in this course of action, crossing its arms and jutting its smug, smirk-topped chin into the air at what it deemed the poetically just notion of forcing the one who had besmirched the robe to remove his legacy from it.

This glitteringly beguiling notion tempted him for only a moment before Severus inwardly scowled at the small part of himself that had suggested it and told it in no uncertain terms precisely where it could stuff itself. Though the self-rebuke employed mere seconds, by the time he had finished putting the smug little part of himself back in its proper place Lawrence had finished stuffing the robe back into the sack and had crumpled the top back down.

"Anyway," he said as he lifted the bag from the bed with a soft _crinkle_, "this time I really will leave you alone and let you get back to reading." He flashed Severus his signature smile and began backing toward the doorway. Pausing there, he added, "If you need anything or have any questions, don't hesitate to let me know. I'll either be in the kitchen, the room next to the loo doing laundry, or cleaning the sanctuary, depending on when you start looking for me."

As Lawrence hovered in the doorway talking while balancing the tea tray on his left arm and clutching the brown sack of dirty laundry in his right hand, Severus couldn't help thinking, _In a different black and white uniform he'd look like a butler_,_ or –_

A deliciously Slytherin thought suddenly slithered into his head. Suppressing a smirk, he lifted an eyebrow languorously, looked Lawrence straight in the eye, and deadpanned, "You should seriously consider a change of career."

Lawrence blinked and jerked his head back a bit while simultaneously rounding both his eyes and eyebrows. "Should I really?" he said, with the smile and voice of a man forcing himself to look and sound amused when at the declaration, in actuality, he felt rather alarmed. Snape, who supposed he was enjoying needling Lawrence more than he strictly should have been, decided to ignore this fact and nodded solemnly. "And why, if I might ask, do you think so?"

"Because," drawled Severus silkily, "no matter how good of a pastor you are, you make an even better maid."

For an instant the two men's facial expressions – one of sardonic triumph, the other of frozen good humour and forced amusement scrambling to mask a sudden onslaught of anxiety – seemed petrified on their faces, though when Severus's words fully registered a moment later in Lawrence's brain, he burst out laughing.

"Well, I suppose I do sort of look like one, don't I?" he said once he could speak again, lifting the tray and the sack and glancing at each of them in turn before turning his grinning visage back on Severus.

"And you act like one," said Severus, who now allowed his suppressed smirk to emerge and stretch a respectable distance across his thin face. "If I had a little silver bell I daresay you'd come running every time I rang it."

Though anyone else would have found the feat impossible, Lawrence's already-broad grin managed to expand even further as he chuckled again. "Ah, well, that's sort of not likely, actually," he said, quirking an eyebrow and one side of his grin upward. Severus lifted his own eyebrow as he rather doubted Beckett's assertion, but chose to keep his opinion to himself.

"Well then, O Master of Potions," said Lawrence in an artificially formal butler-esque voice, "I shall attend to my other duties until you have further need of my services." He then bowed so deeply that he almost bent himself in half, grandly sweeping the arm holding the sack in front of him and making it crackle softly as it swung back and forth. "Ach! My apologies; wrong act of obeisance!" he said in mock dismay, then straightened up for a moment before snatching at his pastor's robe with the sack hand and dipping down in an exceedingly abysmal curtsey.

In spite of himself, Severus gave a short, deep, proper laugh.

Instantly a vise of awkward self-consciousness seized him and he could feel his face heating up, flushing his cheeks the ugly brick-red colour he so detested. At the same time, however, a tiny part of him decided that laughing without an undercurrent of either scorn or sarcasm felt as oddly pleasant as being nice had done.

Lawrence beamed radiantly at him as though attempting to encourage the scrawny, tenuous rays of sun still struggling to break through the clouds to shine brighter and banish their foes. Though the smile did possess a subtle glow of triumph, its overwhelming gentleness suggested that it was not an expression of mean-spirited conquest but rather of elation at managing to get Severus to do something that he usually avoided doing, both as a general rule and to uphold his painstakingly-crafted reputation as a severe and austere man. "Anyway, I suppose I really will let you get back to reading now," said Lawrence. "Remember: if you have questions or want to discuss something you've read, don't hesitate to come find me. I always enjoy talking with you, you know." Then, still beaming, he backed out of the entrance and disappeared around the door jamb, his footfalls echoing softly as he strode down the corridor before they faded entire from hearing.

Severus stared a moment longer at the space Beckett had just vacated as the realisation that his friend had left him in a much better move than he had found him slowly occurred to him. The corner of his mouth twitched upward faintly as he half-sardonically-and-half-seriously speculated whether this ability, which Beckett had displayed on previous occasions, was one of the man's seemingly numerous spiritual gifts.

This conjecturing sparked something deep within his heart, and a small, shy part of himself timidly wondered, very quietly, if he too possessed any spiritual gifts.

_If you do, reading the Bible certainly isn't one of them_, said the cynical inner voice.

Severus might have bothered feeling annoyed at it for breaking out of its mental prison for the nth time that morning had it not had a rather good point (and had he not become somewhat jaded to its biting remarks due to its constantly reoccurring presence). Deciding that it was well past the hour to stop wasting time, he twisted in his chair and scooted it back toward the desk. The Bible still lay exactly where he had left it, waiting patiently for him to realise that it did, in point fact, still exist, and that he was, in point of fact, supposed to be reading it. _This time, _he vowed sternly as he stared at the words on the page, _no stupid, bloody memories are going to interrupt me!_

He then slowly closed his eyes, took conscious control of his breathing, and began strengthening not only his mental fortifications but his mind as a whole, reinforcing every defence and eliminating every weakness, even those he usually neglected on account of their smallness. He then set to disciplining not only his thoughts but his emotions as well, evicting and expelling all negative feelings that served as potential pathways to negative memories.

He did not know how long he sat breathing in and out deeply and regularly, purging his worries and past preoccupations along with his breath – and did not, in point of fact, particularly care – before he slowly opened his eyes to once again find his gaze fixed upon the stone wall before him. As he sat, perfectly still save for the rise and fall of his chest, a pervading sense of calm settled around him like a light cloak, accompanied by the intense, confident assurance of someone who finally felt in control. For a few moments longer he continued to stare at the wall, his mind as blank as the stone, before his gaze slowly slid down the wall and across the desk to light on the Bible.

Situating himself comfortably in the chair, Severus breathed in deeply, couched his chin in his left hand, positioned his right near the edge of the onion-skin thin pages, and began to read.

* * *

A/N: Well, again, the only thing I can say is sorry this is out so late! For those still reading, thank you very much for not abandoning this fic, in spite of the fact that it seems like the time between chapters only increases every time I assert that I'm going to get it out faster.

Also to repeat myself, this chapter is completely different from what I first imagined it would be. The main subject was originally supposed to be a little bridge to some important discussions and – le gasp! – some action too, but the more I wrote the more I came to realise that the subject matter had its own importance to the story that couldn't be glossed over in a few pages. Our lovable Potions Master – at least how I have chosen to write him – as a lot of past issues that continue to inform his present, and the power the past mistakes and horrible experiences he's endured have over him is one of the themes I plan on exploring once (if? :D ) he converts to Christianity and (finally! :D ) returns to Hogwarts.

So anyway, I hope it wasn't a disappointment considering the long wait – I always worry about the new chapter being as good in both content and writing than the previous ones, that's one of the reasons I think that it takes so long to get them out, this spazzing out over that, lol – and I hope that the page length sort of makes up for it? :stares with puppy dog eyes: If you feel like reviewing, simply to let me know that you're still reading, please do; I love to know who still is faithfully reading as I plod ever and most slowly onward. :) So please review, if you'd like, hope you enjoyed it, and now…schoolwork. Woo-hoo.

Cheers,

Ballad


	14. Chapter 14a: Interlude

Trading My Sorrows

By Shadow Ballad

Genre: Drama/Spiritual

Pairings: None so far

Timeline: SEVERELY AU fifth year; it takes little account of book 6, and possibly no account of book 7. Also, Sirius Black has been pardoned and is the DADA assistant to Lupin.

Warnings: T for violence and some language. This is a story detailing a person's conversion to Christianity, so it will contain religious themes. If this offends you, please do not read and then flame me for offending you. Reader, thou hast been warned. : )

Disclaimer: See chapter 12 for the full disclaimer. Suffice to say I do not own any HP stuff; only my original characters.

Pre-A/N: Umbridge's name was wrong, as pointed out to by a perceptive reviewer. Thanks! Anyway, her name is _Delores_ Umbridge, not Jane, as I had written. So that is now fixed. :)

A/N: What's this? An update? Le gasp! … To be serious now, the extent of my apologies for how long it took to get this out are incomprehensible to human minds (including my own). Suffice to say Real Life Was Being a Right $$ for a good few months, I lost my job, and a series of unfortunate and (and some heartwarmingly fortunate) events have occurred that largely left me with little desire to write fanfiction, though hindsight suggests that it would have been good therapy, especially considering the theme of this particular fanfic. But I'm back now, I think! I've been working a great deal (ish lol) on my own original fiction, so this has taken a back-burner spot on my List of Things To Do for a while, though it needs a more prominent position, since it's a great way for me to explore my spirituality, and that has been sadly diminishing. :( Anyway, thanks to the reviewer – I'm sorry I never replied to you or can't remember your username! – who suggested a re-read of _Pilgrim_'_s Progress_, which is a wonderful allegory and quite uplifting spiritually as well. :)

A rather large snag, however, has cropped up: my beta, Ominous Voices, is suffering computer/internet issues, and was unable to beta this for me, so mistakes likely abound in many forms that I can't see by virtue of having written and edited the chapter so much I know what's supposed to be written even if it may not actually be on the page. If you're reading this, Ominous Voices, I do apologize for posting this without your beta-ing; I don't mean to bypass you, but SOMETHING needed to be posted as proof of my life and continuing interest, so… *twiddles thumbs* Do forgive me for posting without sending it to you first! And I hope readers can forgive me too! :)

AN ADDITIONAL IMPORTANT QUESTION: I would like to edit the previous chapters so all match stylistically and according to realizations of timeline errors, but I don't know if replacing old chapters with edited ones will cause all reviews to be lost or not. Will I lose reviews if I do this? If anyone can confirm/debunk this fear of mine, please do! :)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Chapter 14a: Interlude

Amidst the subtle whirring and gentle, silvery noises of the delicate instruments strewn throughout his office, Albus Dumbledore sat musing in his high-backed though deceptively comfortable oak-and-dark-leather chair. One wizened hand tugged absently at his snowy white beard while his startlingly blue eyes gazed through the second window to his right. In spite of the advances the sunlight had made earlier that morning in its battle with the storm, thick clouds heavy with an impending encore of rain and squall scudded about the craggy tips of the mountains that surrounded Hogwarts, much like a beaten force rallying itself for another strike.

Though many others might detect thousands of ominous omens lurking in the eddy and swirl of grey and black and white, the only thought concerning the roiling skies that managed to shove its way into Dumbledore's otherwise thought-crowded mind was the notion that a little cloud formation to the left of the nearest mountain looked extraordinarily like a little fat toad.

He sighed as he watched the motions of the gloomy weather without truly seeing them. His hand was still pulling at his beard, though a particularly hard jerk involving his index finger and a snarl of hair a few moments later put an abrupt and rather painful end to the absent-minded action. _If I keep tugging my beard any longer, _thought Dumbledore, _it is very probable that I will jerk it completely out of my chin_. Beneath his moustache his lips curved up in a small smile at the mental image, though the nature of the thoughts that stuffed his mind and prevented him from contemplating the deeper meanings of cloud motions (should any deeper meanings actually exist in them at all) prevented the smile from enjoying an extended stay. It faded as Dumbledore extricated finger from beard, though the smile's effect of lightening his mental burdens ever so slightly lingered beyond its departure.

Inspired by the brief flash of amusement, Dumbledore decided to put his hand to far better use exploring his spindly-legged, half-dome glass candy dish, which sat beside his silver inkpot and phoenix-feather quill and glittered merrily without the aid of any discernable light source. Seconds later wizened fingers much accustomed to the territory captured one of the golden round prizes within – it was rather fatter than the average drop, his favourite kind – and popped it victoriously into his mouth. He began sucking on it absently, humming with pleasure at its sweet lemon tang as he leaned forward, rested his elbows on a tiny rectangle of uncluttered space, and steepled his fingers at the tip of his crooked nose.

Across the room Fawkes chirruped softly and swished his brilliant, fiery tail about restlessly, but Dumbledore did not spare his loyal companion so much as the slightest glance. Nor did his eyes consider shifting their preoccupied study of the skies to study instead the letter written on thick, official parchment laying on his paper-laden desk, even though it was written in official ink and signed with an official name and was once even sealed with an official red wax 'MM' seal. Anyone who walked into the room at that moment and followed the direction of his gaze would assume that it was only the clouds that engrossed his attention so completely; an indulgence of fantasy, they might think, to escape a headmaster's many burdens and cares. He would completely understand why such a person might think so. The swirling intermingling of clouds and the fascinating formations sculpted by the skilled craftsmanship of the winds _did_ make for rather interesting watching.

Such a person, however, would be completely wrong. Thoughts much heavier than rain-laden clouds churned about in his mind. Though the lemon drop coated his tongue with its tart delights like the small rays of sunshine piercing through the cloud cover outside, the candy's pleasures could not dispel the contents of the letter and the dark implications for Hogwarts that hung behind each officially written word. No, indeed: The skies above, no matter how arbitrarily fascinating they might have been, merely provided a distraction for his eyes while his mind wandered about, ensnared in endless labyrinths of present problems and their possible solutions and probable consequences.

He had not even whittled the fat lemon drop down to a quarter of its original size when a firm, brisk knock interrupted his cloud-gazing and thought-processing. Without starting or jerking into a more professional, Headmaster-of-the-greatest-magical-school-in-Europe posture (though he _did_ finally transfer his eyes from the burgeoning storm to the interior of his office), he said clearly to the solid oak door: "Come in."

The heavy door immediately swung open to admit Minerva McGonagall, her black hair pulled back into a bun so tight that not a single stray hair peaked out from beneath her wide-brimmed black hat. An air of curiosity surrounded her like a fine mist as she closed the door behind her, though the stern neutrality that commonly marked her features and emanated from her demeanour would likely have prevented most people from detecting it. Dumbledore only managed to perceive it on account of both his extraordinary powers of observation (which did objectively far surpass a normal person's, and, moreover, received a bit of extra help from the smallest use of Legilimency) and his many years serving as both her colleague and confidant, both of which allowed him to recognise even minute differences in her habitual business-like disposition.

"Ah, my dear Professor McGonagall!" he said around the lemon drop, his bushy white eyebrows rising in mild surprise. In reality he should not have been quite so shocked, he told himself, for he _had_ sent her a note (via lost-and-redirected-and-awestruck-to-be-helping-the-Headmaster first-year student) requesting that she meet with him whenever the next opportune moment presented itself. However, he had done that even less than an hour ago. With morning classes in session he had not expected her to arrive until first break, though he was certainly not sorry to see her earlier than expected. "Come sit down, Minerva; please, come sit down," he said, a genuine smile crinkling the corners of his mouth and eyes as he gestured to the plush scarlet visitor's armchair in front of his desk.

The corners of McGonagall's mouth twitched upward wryly. "Oh, don't pretend you didn't know it was me before I even knocked," she said as she strode across the length of his office. Her brisker and somewhat-larger-than-normal steps belied her curiosity as to what had prompted his admittedly rather impromptu request for a meeting.

Albus's smile merely widened. "Of course I didn't," he said mildly, tucking the lemon drop into his cheek as she made herself comfortable in the chair, smoothing her emerald green robes across her lap and swiping off imaginary motes of dust and bits of imaginary lint. "Even though I do know more than most people and tend to have better guesses and sounder logic, I am, alas, not nearly as omniscient as some would like to believe. I must confess, however, that the misconception is not quite as bothersome as other misconceptions about me that are also currently quite popular." McGonagall merely shook her head as though she did not believe him, making her tall hat wobble atop her bun, though she did not pursue the subject. Albus continued to smile, letting her disbelieve him all she wished, though it was indeed the truth. He scooted the glass dome candy dish toward her. "Lemon drop?" he asked, though he knew she would refuse.

As he expected, McGonagall dismissed the offer with a polite but impatient wave of her hand. "May I enquire as to why you asked me here on such short notice?" she asked, a soft hue of exasperated worry eclipsing her underlying curiosity and customarilyy succinct practicality. "I fear that my students will Transfigure each other into toadstools if I leave them unattended for too long." She sniffed and gave her head another small shake at the thought, threatening to send her hat toppling completely off her head.

"If they can accomplish that, then you will have taught them well," said Albus with a perfectly straight face as he finally gave the official letter the attention it deserved, lifting it from among the mess of parchments and books covering his desk and handing it to McGonagall. She bestowed a Look upon him that he was sure many a misbehaving student had also received as she reached out a hand to accept it. He continued to stare at her with a straight-faced expression, though he did transfer the lemon drop from cheek back to tongue as she, after leering at him a second longer, adjusted her square–rimmed spectacles and began to read.

His tongue worked at the candy as he adopted his previous posture, propping his elbows on his desk where room permitted and re-steepling his fingers in front of his nose. A silence uninterrupted save by the small, delicate noises of his myriad little instruments and curiosities reigned while McGonagall perused the official contents of the letter. Behind her the interplay between light and darkness in the skies above produced a marvellous show of shifting shadow-shapes on his plush carpet, but Dumbledore, who was closely watching his colleague over the rims of his half-moon glasses, concluded that the war between sun and cloud in the heavens could not possibly rival the ominous storm brewing on Minerva McGonagall's face. With each passing second and side-to-side dart of her eyes, her lips compressed themselves into an increasingly severe, bloodless line across her lower face and her furrowing brows struck an increasingly sharp black dash across her forehead. Though it took perhaps half a minute to finish the letter, her eyes, which had narrowed to brown slits, flickered to the top and rapidly scanned the page once again. Her nostrils flared and her jaw tightened and she glowered at the offending piece of parchment so fiercely that Dumbledore half-expected it to spontaneously burst into flame at any moment and burn to ashes in her hands.

He almost wished that it would. He then could claim he had never received the letter at all, and perhaps even delay the official intentions for Hogwarts that it detailed and which he approved of about as much as he approved of Lord Voldemort's plans for world domination.

After rereading it a third time she looked up, brown eyes hard and flinty and, beneath the anger, alight with a gleam of alarm. "I stand corrected," she said in clipped tones as harsh as the steely glint in her eyes, "in my previously-held belief that Cornelius Fudge could sink no lower than the abysmal depths of meddling foolishness to which he has already sunk." Albus, thankful that the daggers flashing in her gaze were meant for the letter and its author even though they were pointed at him, allowed the briefest of concurring smiles to float across his lips before rearranging his features once again into straight-faced neutrality.

The daggers returned to the parchment. Albus half-expected small holes to pierce it where her gaze lingered. "This exceeds everything he's ever done!" McGonagall continued, her clenched fingers threatening to crush Fudge's official Ministry declarations into an official crumpled mess. She gave an incredulously indignant snort. "To date, that is," she added, as though loath to prematurely declare that Fudge had finally committed the Act of Ultimate Foolishness when his capacity for the genre of deed implied more than a slight probability – and inevitability – that he would manage to outperform himself sometime in the likely-near future.

She gloweringly reread the letter once more as though she had not already memorised their infuriating contents before returning her gaze back to Dumbledore. "What exactly _is_ this nonsense about the need for a – a" – she glanced back at the letter for a brief moment – "a 'Hogwarts High Inquisitor?" she asked, her clenched hands further tightening on the offending piece of parchment in outrage at the mere idea. Albus silently continued sucking on his lemon drop, knowing that she did not yet expect him to reply, though he silently predicted that the letter would return to him aged with more than a few extra wrinkles than it had possessed upon first entering her grasp, and likely a few tears as well. She stared at him for a moment before her eyes revisited the letter again, scanning it for what seemed the hundredth time since the first reading. "And this 'Madame Delores Umbridge' woman, she _can't_ be? –"

"- the very same Madame Delores Umbridge whose delightful acquaintance I had the pleasure of making at Harry's trial in July," said Albus conversationally, giving the lemon drop an experimental bite and discovering that it was not quite yet ready to chew. He watched her reaction, greatly admiring her ability to express profound emotions through the most minute of movements: Her nostrils flared even wider, her brows furrowed so low that they almost obscured her eyes, and her mouth, though it seemed impossible, constricted to an even tighter whiplash across her thin face. A moment later she opened the taught slash and sucked in an angry breath; but, after a short pause and a harsh blink, she huffed the breath back out and closed her mouth with a click of teeth as though judging her comment to be inappropriate to make in the presence of someone who was technically her professional superior.

Dumbledore wished she would have said it, inappropriate or not. An educated guess – and his tended to possess more education than most people's educated guesses – led him to suspect that Minerva had been about to insult Madame Delores Umbridge in a devastating tirade of negative epithet that only a Scotswoman and long-time colleague of Severus Snape could achieve. The last time he had heard such a quality tirade was when she, aided by perhaps a sip too many of Scotch, had erupted at Severus for making a particularly sly manoeuvre during a game of chess at the annual pre-term staff tournament in September.

Instead of granting Dumbledore's silent, as-inappropriate-as-what-she-had-been-about-to-say-but-did-not-say wish, McGonagall folded the parchment in half as though the mere sight of the official words written in official ink disgusted her to the point of illness. She then thrust it stiffly back at him as though the mere touch of the official parchment contaminated her fingers. Albus gingerly took it from her, noting that it was indeed quite more wrinkly and torn than before it had made her acquaintance. He placed it back on his desk near a few other stacks of parchments, which included but certainly were not limited to letters from many irate parents, letters from a few approving parents, letters of encouragement, letters of warning, and even a few letters of thinly veiled threats from anonymous but suspected sources. "I can't help but notice that Fudge failed to specify when this…_woman_ will be arriving," McGonagall said as she clasped her now-empty hands in her lap. Her tone suggested that she used the term 'woman' loosely.

"If it was _my_ school such an abomination would not be arriving at all," said a thin, reedy voice from the right-hand wall before Dumbledore had a chance to reply. McGonagall started, having apparently quite forgotten in her anger that the walls in Dumbledore's office quite literally had ears – specifically those attached to the heads of the previous Headmasters and Headmistresses of Hogwarts, who always listened in on every conversation held in the room. She jerked her head about to face the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black, knocking her hat askew with the motion. Dumbledore closed his eyes a moment, sighed, and then twisted about in his chair so he too faced the former Slytherin Headmaster, who stared back at them haughtily from eyes as dark as his surname. Like the other portraits, he had been feigning sleep while surreptitiously eavesdropping on the discussion of Fudge's letter; but apparently the idea of a Ministry-appointed Hogwarts High Inquisitor so appalled him that he felt it a part of his sworn duty to aid the current Headmaster to drop the sleep charade and grace Dumbledore with his invaluable opinion in the matter.

The indignation that inflamed Phineas Nigellus to boldly declare how he would personally respond to the situation seemed to inspire the other former Heads, for just as Dumbledore opened his mouth to thank Phineas Nigellus for his insightful observation but to please refrain from making any others, the other portraits instantly roused themselves from their own feigned sleeps and began offering their own similarly indignant commentaries. "It's utterly outrageous!" sputtered Dexter Fortescue. Both white and black-haired heads swivelled to glance at a corpulent, red-nosed wizard, McGonagall clutching the brim of her hat as she did so to keep it from falling completely off.

"Indeed!" agreed Dilys Derwent, a witch with silver ringlets whose portrait hung near the ceiling. "Why, in my day as Headmistress the Minister of Magic would not have presumed half so much as to send anyone into the school, much less a…a High Inquisitor!"

"He's far overstepped his bounds this time!" roared Dexter Fortescue again. "He has no right meddling in Hogwarts business, no right at _all_!"

"The rights of the Minister of Magic are not the crucial element in the matter," said Phineas Nigellus's reedy voice again from the right. "It's the rights of the Hogwarts _Headmaster_ –"

" – Or Head_mistress_!" snapped a gimlet-eyed witch in the portrait next to him, brandishing her thick, birch rod-like wand at him threateningly.

"Yes, yes, very well, or Head_mistress_," said Phineas Nigellus impatiently with an equally impatient flick of his wrist, though he eyed her wand with no little amount of trepidation. "As I was saying, it's the rights of the Hogwarts – er – _Headperson_ – that is the crux of the matter, and it's the Headperson's right – nay, his _duty_ –"

"– or _her _duty!" interrupted the witch with the thick wand again, whacking it across her palm in a decidedly menacing fashion –

" – to protect the school from any outside interference that poses even the slightest threat," continued Phineas Nigellus, completely ignoring her this time, though he shifted toward the opposite side of his frame to get as far from her portrait as he could get without having to join one of his neighbours in theirs.

Dumbledore, who had been politely listening to this exchange while sucking on his dwindling lemon drop, could not agree more with the former Headmaster's statement. He also could not, however, agree less with Phineas Nigellus's tone. It seemed to suggest that Dumbledore possessed the right, the duty, and the ability to put an end to the entire outrageous situation at any time he wished, but – alas! – seemed to lack the power and resolve to actually do it.

The other occupants of the room – both animate and inanimate – seemed to take similar issue with the hints embedded within Phineas Nigellus's statement. Dexter Fortescue's round face flushed to match the exact shade of red as his nose, the knuckles of Dilys Derwent's tightly clasped hands grew white, and the gimlet-eyed Headmistress growled and pointed her wand at Phineas Nigellus as though ready to hex him if he dared open his mouth again. McGonagall snorted and pursed her lips and favoured his portrait with one of the dagger-like glowers she had been throwing at Fudge's letter, but, apparently feeling that it was not her place to reprimand a former Headmaster (even a painted one), said nothing. The other former Heads, however, were happily unfettered by such status-based restraint. They looked on the verge of drenching Phineas Nigellus in a deluge of verbal rebuke, and would likely have happily drowned him in it for hours had Dumbledore not spontaneously decided that one of the many privileges of being the current Head included the freedom to thwart the intentions of the former Heads if their intentions happened to interfere with his own.

"Thank you, everyone, for your valuable input on the matter," he said in a polite but firm voice (after tucking his lemon drop into his left cheek), cutting them off before they could sacrifice more valuable time pursuing so petty an issue. He nodded courteously to all of the portraits to let them know that he truly did appreciate them, even Phineas Nigellus. For the briefest of moments the former Slytherin Headmaster looked quite annoyed that his bait had not accrued even the smallest of nibbles from the Dumbledore-shaped fish he had hoped to catch, but he quickly smoothed out his features and returned Dumbledore's nod with the self-important air of someone who had positively contributed to the situation though he had actually functioned as someone who had made it worse.

"However," Dumbledore continued, ignoring Phineas Nigellus, "I must ask that all of you refrain from making any more contributions to our discussion. There is more that Professor McGonagall needs to know, and little time for her to learn it." Though the portraits all looked quite disappointed, part of their duties to serve the current Head happily included obeying any order or request made of them, no matter how they felt about it. They nodded in acceptance of Dumbledore's appeal and, though many looked keen on tossing out a final word (or, in the gimlet-eyed Headmistress's case, a final hex), all remained silent and instantly pretended to sleep once again. Dumbledore, however, harboured no illusions that they were not all peeking out from under their eyelids and straining their ears to catch every word he exchanged with Professor McGonagall. Based on the evidence of past experience, he suspected that their opinions and comments would completely flood the room the moment she crossed the threshold and closed the door behind her heels.

Satisfied that there would be no more interruptions from the former Heads, Albus shifted in his chair so that he again faced McGonagall, who had used the moment he had been addressing the portraits to straighten her wide-brimmed hat so that it once more sat properly on her head. After moving his lemon drop from his cheek back to his tongue (he knew she did not mind it), he gave it a quick suck and then said, "And now, my dear Professor McGonagall, I believe you wished to know when our – er – most _esteemed _guest would be arriving, correct?"

McGonagall snorted quite indelicately at his choice of words. "I did," she said crisply in a tone of voice that made Albus think of a general impatient to know when his enemy's army would be entering his territory.

Instead of answering immediately, Dumbledore continued working at his lemon drop and unlaced his fingers to scratch the tip of his long, crooked nose. His mind glanced toward the top parchment resting atop a stack of papers to the left of Fudge's letter, written in the same official ink on the same official parchment, but his bright blue eyes never left McGonagall's face. "I cannot be absolutely certain," he said finally after giving his lemon drop another experimental bite (_still_ not ready to chew!), "but I have reason to suspect that she will be arriving sometime in early October."

McGonagall pursued her lips and narrowed her eyes, squinting at him slightly, likely trying to ascertain whether he truly was not "absolutely certain" or was instead choosing to withhold the complete details from her for the same veiled, shadowy reasons he often chose to keep such details to himself. Dumbledore merely continued sucking on his candy, enduring her scrutiny without grudging her for it in the least. He was well aware that he had a reputation for keeping back information from people until the instant he thought it crucial they know it. What he failed to understand was why people insisted on viewing this insistence in so negative a light. Too much information at once could prove more burdensome than helpful, and it could lead to problematic decision-making (or stifle it entirely) just as effectively as could too little information. Dumbledore's long experience had convinced him that revealing the right information to the right person at the right moment in the right manner always produced the best overall results, though successfully deciphering the identify of each 'right' in the equation did require more than a typical person's capacity of inspired, instinctive intelligence.

In this instance, however, the reason he chose not to enlighten McGonagall about the details concerning Madam Delores Umbridge's imminent arrival revolved around the simple fact that he did not possess those details himself.

McGonagall did not level him with her questioning gaze for very long. Perhaps six or seven seconds passed before her eyes suddenly widened, as though the meaning of something someone had said earlier had abruptly blossomed to its full and seemingly disturbing extent in her mind. "Did you say _October,_ Albus?" she asked, and then, before he could affirm this fact, spluttered in a most undignified fashion: "But – but that's so _soon_!"

"It is indeed," said Albus calmly around his lemon drop. Minerva pinked slightly at losing her composure and immediately set to regaining it, pursing her lips again and knitting her brows into another troubled knot across her forehead.

"I gather from her – her _absurd_ title that she means to inspect us and report her _opinions_ back to Fudge," she said, heavily burring her 'r's as she was wont to do when particularly upset. Though her words possessed the force of a statement rather than the hesitancy of a question, her voice rose slightly near the end as though she wanted confirmation that her assumption was true before she dared believe something so outrageous. Albus inclined his head slightly to let her know that, as far as he knew – and he lamented the fact that his knowledge did not stretch very far at all – this was indeed Madam Delores Umbridge's purpose at Hogwarts.

The idea that someone not even remotely involved in the field of education would be evaluating experienced professors' teaching abilities reignited the earlier spark of outrage that had burned so fiercely within McGonagall when she had been reading Fudge's letter. She snorted and tightened her jaw, her eyes blazing with a righteous fury that swept across the rest of her features, burning away her astounded disquiet over Umbridge's rapidly approaching invasion of Hogwarts like a wildfire blazing through a field of dry grass and leaving only ashes in its wake.

"Well," she said tartly, "in that case, I can only hope that Severus decides to get himself back here before _she_ decides to install herself at Hogwarts. It would not bode well if the resident Potions Master were not actually in residence when this _High Inquisitor_" – (this said with a tone of complete derision and a small, ironic lift of her brows) – "comes evaluating."

Beneath the stern, unyielding façade, Albus thought he detected the smallest hint of worry for her colleague. He smiled inwardly, pleased that McGonagall not only cared about Severus when so many of the other professors and residents of Hogwarts did not care at all, but that she was managing to express her concern in her usual businesslike manner rather than the near-hysterics that had marked the last time they had touched on the topic of Severus's largely unexplained and prolonged absence.

"Rest assured that Severus will return here the moment he is ready to, whenever that moment happens to reveal itself to him," said Albus calmly. He paused to suck on the lemon drop for a few seconds before giving it a third experimental bite. This time it broke into an indeterminable number of small, crunchy, lemony pieces that scattered over his tongue. After chewing and swallowing them all, Albus added, "All we can do, my dear Minerva, is to trust that he will recognise that moment when it arrives. Until then, we can only wait – and hope for the best."

McGonagall nodded curtly in agreement, though a small sigh and a fleeting gleam of anxiety in her otherwise flinty brown eyes belied the ostensible shallowness of her concern. They sat facing each other in silent peace for a minute or two before McGonagall sighed again, though this one sounded heavily of longsuffering exasperation. "Well, I suppose I should return to my classroom and see what mischief my students have gotten themselves into," she said, managing to grace Albus with a small, ironic smile in spite of the news she had just received.

He quite admired her for it.

She rose gracefully from the plush scarlet visitor's chair and stretched. "Shall I inform the rest of the staff of what you told me, or will you take care of that yourself?" she asked as she smoothed the wrinkly results of having been seated a fair amount of time from her emerald robes.

Albus considered this for a moment. He did not particularly care which source supplied the other professors' illumination so long as they were all made aware of Madam Delores Umbridge's upcoming arrival, but hearing such a thing from the Headmaster could only enforce the gravity of the event. In spite of this, however, there were certain people who perhaps needed to be informed sooner than the others rather than later. "Please see if you can inform the rest of the Order as soon as possible," he said eventually, "and I will notify the other professors discretely throughout the day." She nodded curtly once again, then bid him good day and turned sharply on her heel for the door, fully composed but narrow in the mouth and eye.

Just as he had predicted, the instant the oak door reacquainted itself with the jamb, an explosion of argument and declaration ripped through the small, circular room. Albus, however, paid it no mind, even though he heard his name tossed about rather frequently. Instead he returned his gaze to the window on his right, absently marvelling at the great swathes of sky-territory the grey clouds had swiftly captured during his discussion with McGonagall. As the former Heads bickered and shouted and loudly postulated increasingly impractical solutions to The Umbridge Problem, Dumbledore sighed and wondered if perhaps he ought to have waited to share such distressing news with his colleague until after her class had ended out of pity for the poor students who still had to suffer the greater portion of an hour with Minerva McGonagall at the heights of a riled, inflamed temper.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A/N: Well, I know it's got very little to do with Christianity, but I hope it convinced anyone still reading the story that I am in fact still alive, though for a while this status was dangerously close to "undecided." I won't go into details, but suffice to say it has taken me quite some time to recover, hence the longer-than-usual stretch of months between updates it's been. Rest assured, that as long as one reviewer sends even a "keep writing!" message, I will endeavour to get something out eventually.

Constructive criticisms are always appreciated. :)

Cheers,

Ballad


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